


Man with a Plan

by emluv



Series: Secrets, Lies, and Spies [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:50:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emluv/pseuds/emluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is determined to help Bucky Barnes, no matter what that might entail, even if nothing of the man he knew remains. But first he has to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately following Captain America: The Winter Soldier, and includes spoilers. Third story in a series that will follow the various Avengers and agents of SHIELD through the fallout of the events of CATWS.

Apparently even a super solider needs time to recover from a bullet through the gut.

 

It’s Sam who points it out, of course. Because apparently what he meant when he asked, “When do we start?” was “How much time do you need to get back in fighting shape?” and also, “Do you actually have a _clue_ what you’re doing?”

 

None of this becomes clear, however, until they’ve left the cemetery and Nick Fury’s vacant grave behind and are back at Sam’s condo, picking at the remains of the pizza they grabbed for dinner, and Steve asks what time Sam can be ready to leave in the morning.

 

“As in tomorrow morning?” Sam clarifies, eyebrows darting sky high.

 

Steve just nods, half his attention on the thick file Natasha gave him where it rests on the coffee table in the next room. He hasn’t gotten very far with it yet, hasn’t allowed himself to look past the first few pages with their haunting photographs.

 

“Okay man, I get that you’re anxious to start searching, but how many times did you almost die in the past week?”

 

That makes him look at Sam. “I’m fine, really,” he tells him. “And I only ended up in the hospital once,” he points out.

 

“After getting stabbed in the shoulder, shot four times, and falling a couple thousand feet into the river where you almost drowned,” Sam counters.

 

“Three times,” Steve says. “The one shot was just a graze, doesn’t count.”

 

Sam stares. “The bullet connected with your flesh. It counts. And how many other things should have killed you? You told me you fought off an elevator full of SHIELD agents and then jumped through plate glass and fell a bunch of stories, that a bogie _blew up a bunker_ over your head, and I was there for the fight on the causeway. I know you’re all super soldier and invincible, or whatever, but even the doc told you to take it easy for a few days.”

 

Steve lets out a quiet sigh. He doesn’t know what to say to that.

 

Sam takes a slug of beer, but his eyes remain focused like a weight, watching Steve’s reactions. He sets down the bottle with a soft clink.

 

“What happens if you have to go up against him again?” he finally asks. His voice is low and gentle, like he hates to pose the question, hates being the voice of reason.

 

“He won’t hurt me.”

 

“That’s what you want to believe, but you can’t be sure. At the very least, you need to be healed up enough to defend yourself.”

 

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t want to admit that he has no intention of raising a hand to Bucky, that he’s done fighting him. He suspects Sam already knows, anyway.

 

“Do you even have an idea where to start looking?”

 

Steve’s gaze shifts back to the folder. “Friday,” he says, ignoring Sam’s question, though he knows it’s valid. “That’s three days.”

 

“Okay, Friday,” Sam agrees after a minute. “I can do that.”

 

~*~

 

After dinner they sit on the couch, CNN on the TV, and watch the ongoing debate as to what should be done about SHIELD. Every politician, poly sci professor, economist, and military spokesperson seems anxious to get in on the act, spouting their opinions, laying blame, pointing fingers. Eventually Steve tunes them out, eyes fixed on the flickering screen while his mind drifts, wondering where Bucky is, what he’s doing, if he’s gone back to Hydra – or they’ve taken him back.

 

At some point Sam must notice his inattention, because suddenly the television goes dark, the buzzing backdrop of voices vanishing, and he blinks and turns to find Sam watching him, his expression a strange mix of concern and amusement.

 

“I know what you really want to be doing,” Sam tells him. “So I’m gonna turn in, get out of your hair. Try not to stay up all night.”

 

“I won’t. Good night.”

 

Sam rises with a nod, heads down the hall toward the bedrooms.

 

Steve stares down at the file. He’s tempted to dive right in, spread it all out across every flat surface and hope something will make sense, but he suddenly feels vulnerable out in the living room alone, exposed. They’ve been keeping the blinds closed since he and Natasha first showed up looking for a place to crash after New Jersey, but there’s something about the combination of the hour and quiet neighborhood, along with the knowledge that Hydra is everywhere and would no doubt do anything to get their hands on the information in front of him that makes him want to curl up in a dark corner and bend over the pages, shield them from view.

 

Taking the file, he turns off the living room lights, double checks the front door, and heads for the little blue guest room where Sam insisted he stay after he was released from the hospital. He drops the file on the bed, closes the door behind him, and immediately feels more secure even as he acknowledges that he’s being ridiculous. It’s the file, what it contains; just thinking about it sends chills down his spine.

 

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, back up against the headboard, he blows out a sharp breath and opens the dog-eared folder. His gaze immediately focuses on the two photos: Bucky in his army uniform, and in his frozen, cryo state. The expression on his face in the latter, a faded black and white where frost coats his features, sends a stabbing pain into Steve’s heart. He forces himself to take the first loose page in the file and shift it to block the images.

 

The documents themselves are in Russian. Or maybe Ukrainian? Natasha said she called in a favor from Kiev. Something Cyrillic, anyway. It makes no difference, since he can’t read either one. For the first time he wishes he’d taken Natasha up on her offer to teach him Russian. He’s picked up the odd phrase from her over the time they’ve been working together, but it seemed redundant to learn a language she already spoke fluently when they so often were paired together on ops, so he’d focused on improving the French and German he’d picked up during the war before tackling anything new. Though given the return of Hydra, maybe the German, at least, will come in handy.

 

Flipping through the pages, he can see the notes were made over time, each section dated numerically in the European style. The first dozen pages appear to focus on the artificial arm, with photos and diagrams included along with the text. Records of missions follow eventually, with photos of other people, presumably targets, and dates indicating ranges of up to several days. There are gaps, sometimes of years, and he wonders if Bucky spent all that missing time in stasis, or if maybe some missions were not recorded. He supposes it’s also possible that Natasha pulled some of the documents from the folder before giving it to him. She would have had no trouble reading the file, and while he trusts her far more than he did a few weeks ago – would trust her with his life in a heartbeat – he can’t help but recall how reluctant she was for him to go after Bucky, to dig into his past.

 

Then he reaches the back of the folder and feels uncharitable. An English translation, printed on crisp white printer paper and stapled in the upper left-hand corner, rests beneath the original documents, a folded slip of some lighter paper attached to the first sheet with a paperclip. He tugs it free and flips it open to find a note from Natasha.

 

_Steve –_

_You should know that he’s the one who dragged you out of the river. We were circling in the helicopter trying to spot you in the wreckage, and I saw the sun reflecting off something – thought it was your shield but then realized it was his arm. By the time we turned and swung back he was gone. But he saved your life. Whatever else is going on in his mind, whatever’s left, in that moment, he couldn’t let you die._

_It’s the only reason I’m giving you this file. You need to understand what was done to him. Because I don’t know that it’s possible to come back from it. And just because he spared your life once, doesn’t mean he won’t try to kill you the next time you cross paths._

_Natasha_

 

Breathing ragged, he stares down at the neatly written words, the swirls of Natasha’s penmanship, and can’t remember if he’s ever seen her handwriting before. It’s distinctive, foreign, old fashioned in its studied slant. He carefully refolds the note, clips it closed with the paperclip, and sets it aside. Then he picks up the typewritten translation of the file on the Winter Soldier and begins to read.

 

~*~

 

It’s nearly three a.m. by the time he reaches the end of the translation, and he knows he’s not going to be getting any sleep. But he neatly gathers up all the documents and sets the folder aside, then strips down to boxers and undershirt, stretches out on the bed and turns off the lamp. Faint shadows from the street light filter through the blinds on the single window, throwing slender greenish stripes across the far wall. Somewhere nearby a car alarm goes off, repeating several times before it’s silenced, but other than that, Sam’s neighborhood is relatively quiet, so unlike the streets around his own apartment, where the bars and restaurants mean pedestrian traffic keeps up well into the night, reminding him of Brooklyn.

 

His mind’s awash with information, and he knows he’s going to need to read through everything again, to take notes and organize the facts in some logical fashion if he’s to have any hope of coming up with a plan to find Bucky. The file is filled with names and places, any one of which could be a clue, something that Bucky might remember and search out. But lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, Steve keeps coming back to the earliest data, the chronicle of what they did to turn his best friend into the Winter Soldier, brainwashing him, wiping his memories, and brainwashing him again, treating him like a tool, a weapon, completely discounting the man.

 

Steve remembers teaching himself to draw as a kid, back before the war. He’d curl up with a cheap pad and a pencil and sketch the same thing again and again – an apple resting on the rickety wooden kitchen table, a car parked down by the curb, one of Bucky’s toy soldiers – erasing and rewriting over the same blank sheet until he either replicated the image to his satisfaction or wore a hole through the paper fibers.

 

He wonders how many times you can erase memories from the human brain and rewrite them – what it would take to permanently damage those areas of the mind that tell someone who they are, who they were. How many times can you erase someone’s memories before you wear through the places they were held, leaving nothing but holes.

 

It’s still dark when the birds start chirping, but he gets up anyway, uses the bathroom, splashes some cold water on his face. He’s already in his running clothes, tying his sneakers when he hears Sam stirring in the next room. It would be simple to slip out quietly, head over toward the Mall alone, but he knows that would piss his friend off and he’s trying not to do that.

 

A minute later Sam peers through the open doorway, his gaze assessing, and shakes his head. “Give me five to change?”

 

“Sure. I’m just going to get something to drink,” Steve tells him, nodding toward the kitchen.

 

They head out together, keeping an easy pace, Steve deliberately matching Sam rather than sprinting on ahead. He’s pretty much healed up, but he can still feel where the bullet went through his back and came out his stomach – not in the sense of it being painful, but like an awareness, his body clinging to the knowledge of the path the bullet took. He suspects it’s more in his head than any real muscle memory, but it leaves him feeling edgy.

 

Once they reach the Mall, they both turn automatically in the direction of the reflecting pool near the Capitol. Steve glances over toward Sam and he just smirks and waves him off.

 

“Go ‘head, I know you want to. See you in a few.”

 

Steve nods and picks up his pace, letting his legs fall into a natural stride. It’s still slower than he’d normally run, in deference to his injuries but also because he normally pushes his pace to shut down his mind, and today he actually wants to think.

 

Near as he can determine, there are three ways things might have played out after Bucky pulled him from the Potomac. If he was functioning as the Winter Soldier, despite not having followed his orders to kill Steve, he likely returned to Hydra, wherever they had ordered him to report. However, if his conditioning was breaking down enough for him to remember Steve even a little, the chances were good that he did not report back, in which case he is either hiding somewhere in the city, or he has fled.

 

The problem is, beyond that, Steve has no idea. He can’t rely on him reacting as Bucky would, even if some of those memories are starting to surface. And he certainly can’t predict his behavior if the Winter Soldier is the one making the decisions. All of which leaves him shooting in the dark unless he can get a fix on Bucky’s location at some point during the last few days.

 

Spotting Sam ahead, he slows his pace again and comes up on the other man’s left.

 

“What? No blow by?” Sam huffs, maintaining his speed.

 

“Not today,” Steve tells him.

 

Sam turns and glances down at his midsection. “Something hurting?”

 

“No,” he replies, his voice clipped.

 

Sam winces. “Got it. Sorry, man.”

 

Steve shrugs a little sheepishly. “Nah, ‘s fine. Let’s just finish up and head back.”

 

~*~

 

“So are we gonna talk about it?” Sam asks.

 

They’ve just finished breakfast and Steve is clutching his mug, staring down into the cold remains of his coffee.

 

“I know you read the stuff Natasha gave you, and I’m not asking what it said, but you seem like you need to talk, so… Just sayin’.”

 

Steve pushes to his feet. “Want more coffee?”

 

“Sure.”

 

He goes and gets the pot from the little kitchen, comes back and tops off Sam’s mug before refilling his own and putting the now-empty carafe into the sink. He braces his hands against the edge of the counter and peers out over the top of the mostly closed blinds to the sliver of sky and the roof of the building across the way that are just visible.

 

“He had amnesia,” he says. “When they pulled him out of that ravine in the Alps, he’d already lost his arm a couple of inches above the elbow, was hypothermic from the snow and rambling, in shock. Couldn’t remember who he was.” He exhales hard. “The cold and ice saved his life,” he says, and even he can hear how bitter he sounds.

 

“You couldn’t have known, Steve.”

 

“That really doesn’t make it any better.” He moves back to the table and sits, takes a sip of his coffee, stares at nothing for a few minutes before looking up to find Sam waiting patiently.

 

“You’re right,” he tells him. “You and Natasha. After reading everything they did to Bucky, I know I can’t expect him to remember. If there’s anything left of the Bucky Barnes I knew, it’ll be a miracle,” he acknowledges. “But I can’t just leave him out there. If he didn’t go back to Hydra, they’re going to be searching for him, and I can’t… Whoever he is, whatever he’s done, I can’t let them get their hands on him again. Not if I can stop it.”

 

“I’m with you, Steve. I already told you I’d help.”

 

“Thanks, Sam.”

 

“So, that folder give you any ideas where to start looking?”

 

“Too many,” he admits. “I’m going to go back through it today, see if I can eliminate some of the possibilities, prioritize what’s left.”

 

“I need to go by the VA, let them know I’m going to be gone for a while. After that I’ve got to go finalize the paperwork for the insurance claim on my car.”

 

Steve blanches. “I am so sorry about that.”

 

“Hey, don’t worry about it. That’s what insurance is for, am I right? You be okay here alone?”

 

“Yeah, it’s fine. I may swing by my place, too. Pick up some stuff.”

 

“You gonna hold onto that apartment while we’re gone?”

 

Steve frowns. SHIELD had helped him find the rental, and clearly had been monitoring him, between the bugs and the agent across the hall. Besides, it’s hard to think of the apartment now without picturing Nick Fury bleeding out on the hardwood floor.

 

“No, I don’t think I am,” he says. “I’ll look into getting everything packed up and stored. Even if we end up coming back soon, pretty sure I’m going to want a new place.”

 

They clear the dishes and head their separate ways, Steve not yet feeling quite ready to face the Winter Soldier documents again. It’s a short ride on the metro back to his apartment, but he’s only been twice since Nick was shot there, to clean up a little and to pick up clothes. From the street he can see the board over the window where the glass was shattered by bullets (Soviet slugs, no riffling). Someone from SHIELD was supposed to arrange to have it fixed, but he very much doubts that’s going to happen now.

 

He goes inside and takes the stairs three at a time. When he reaches the landing, he pauses at the first door, wondering if he should knock and see if Kate—no, Sharon—is home, find out what she’s doing now that SHIELD has collapsed. He can hear Natasha telling him to go ahead, that she seems nice.

 

The thing is, he knows what Natasha has been trying to do, pushing him to date the last couple of months. Natasha more than anyone could see he was floundering, struggling to get a handle on this modern age even while he pined for his own era. Who better to understand how hard it was to connect than someone who had almost no real ties of her own? It was her way of helping, of trying to give him an anchor, some normality in the middle of the chaos.

 

He thinks of Sam, with his talk of music, and too-soft beds, and the size of the baggage you carry, of the way he put himself back in the fight just because Steve asked for his help. He thinks of Fury, a ghost still struggling to protect the world. Of Natasha herself, willing to pour her secrets out for anyone to see, to risk everything in order to stop Hydra in their tracks. And he thinks he’s already got some pretty good anchors.

 

As for normal, well. He’s a ninety-five-year-old super soldier who spent close to seventy years on ice. Nothing has been normal for a very long time.

 

He continues past Sharon’s door without knocking, and lets himself into his own apartment.

 

~*~

TBC 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve isn't the only one who needs time to pull himself together. In this chapter, the Winter Soldier learns to function on a day-to-day basis, and to come up with his own plan… to stay alive and avoid capture.

He wakes flailing, metal fist clenched in the coarse sheets beneath him, flesh hand reaching out for… something. He freezes, fingers outstretched, and scans his surroundings. Only after a long, still moment does he allow his hand to relax, his arm to fall.

 

The dream fades, leaving behind an oily residue of fear and adrenaline, and a churning sensation in his gut. Tense, he stares at the stained white ceiling in the edge-of-dawn light, running through the litany of facts he has repeated to himself each time elusive memories have ripped him from sleep.

 

He is in an inexpensive hotel room for the night. He is clean, no longer resembling one of the vagrants and outcasts who roam the city. He has a duffel with two changes of clothes and an extra cap. He has a bus ticket and several hundred stolen dollars. His bus departs at 7:45.

 

On the rickety nightstand, the digital clock reads 5:56 a.m. Still too early to leave, but late enough that he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the sagging bed. Beneath his feet, the carpet feels threadbare and scratchy, and he frowns, wondering when he last noticed such things for their own sake, when they weren’t just a potential clue to the location of a target.

 

In the bathroom, he drinks water from the tap and splashes more over his face, then stands in front of the narrow mirror and examines his features. His stubble has grown too thick for the cheap disposable razor he purchased at a drug store, so he is allowing it to grow, reasoning that a beard will camouflage his face better than smooth skin. His hair, now clean, hangs limp and straight, falling forward to obscure his gaze. He pushes it back and stares into his own eyes, as if he might see straight through to the mysteries that lie behind them. But the memories are beyond his control, coming mostly while he sleeps, robbing him of the few hours of rest he requires and leaving him in various states of anger, aggression, fear, or frustration, but with little of any substance. He retains a few images, small moments or flashes of movement but no more, and nothing that he can piece together into a true memory. Nothing that tells him anything beyond what he can surmise on his own.

 

Returning to the main room, he goes to the window and peers through the narrow space between the curtains to the street one flight down. The city begins to stir, early risers heading to work, delivery trucks lumbering past, the occasional shorts-clad jogger running along, head bopping to whatever music their headphones spill into their ears. He takes it all in, catalogs their behavior, judges what passes for normal, what might stand out.

 

Already he has learned how to blend, how to avoid detection. He has spent several days studying and copying, determining the mask to present to best escape attention. The well-shod and slickly dressed draw their own kind of notice, passersby eyeing their finery, comparing it to their own, but avoiding eye contact; the homeless part pedestrians like rocks breaking waves yet draw the eye of law enforcement. He doubts he could manage the first look even if he chose to. The second seems far more likely but problematic; he needs to get close to people in order to lift their wallets, and he wishes to avoid the police for more reasons than he can remember. Instead he must work to seem ordinary but not lost, his clothes plain but clean, his demeanor purposeful but on pace with those around him.

 

He turns from the window and puts on his clothes, methodically checking the placement of his weapons, each one carefully concealed. His few belongings are already packed, but he confirms each item – clothes, bus ticket, cash split into small stacks and tucked into several pockets. He pulls his hair back and tugs on his cap, then his gloves, takes his duffel and leaves the drab room.

 

The hotel itself is not the sort to ever grow truly quiet during the night, but it is early enough that any activity taking place is still going on behind closed doors and no one sees him head down the hallway. He takes the stairs to the small excuse for a lobby and drops his key card on the counter. The young man dozing behind the desk, head bobbing at an awkward angle, never stirs.

 

Out on the street, bag hiked over his shoulder, he adopts the manner he has perfected over the past few days, stride even and confident but not too fast, head tipped down just slightly so the brim of his cap obscures his face from anyone walking toward him. He located the bus stop the day before, tracing three separate routes from the hotel, and now takes the most direct one, having determined there is no one suspicious about.

 

In fact, he has yet to spot anyone who appears to be tracking him, from any of the likely parties. It is this, more than anything, that has convinced him to leave town. The urge to keep moving has grown, swelling exponentially each day until he is almost sick with it, and he understands that if anyone does search him out, this city is the likely place to start. Removing himself from Washington, DC, makes him that much more difficult to track, whether for his handlers, for the captain, or for someone else entirely. Absent a true mission, he has only one objective – to evade capture. If there is another, fainter plan based on those shattered pieces of memory haunting his sleep, it is secondary.

 

A block from the bus stop he purchases breakfast at a deli. Two days ago he discovered sandwiches made with eggs and ham and cheese, and that they could be found most mornings in similar restaurants. He does not think he’s had them before; his handlers always gave him thick nutritional shakes during missions. Real food is more difficult, the names of things not always telling him what they are. But his hunger has escalated along with the need to flee, and so he has spent time watching people eat as well as walk, listening carefully to what they call the various dishes they order. This deli has breakfast sandwiches with sausage as well as ham, and he gets one of each to go, along with a bottle of water and an orange.

 

When he nears the bus stop, he spots an older woman with a tidy grey wheeled suitcase and an Asian man with a knapsack already waiting at the curb. The bus itself is rounding the corner at the end of the block, heading toward them, so he allows himself to approach the other passengers, keeping his eyes averted. He has learned in his observations of people that they are less likely to talk to strangers early in the morning, and he takes full advantage of this fact.

 

The bus pulls to a stop, brakes complaining loudly, and the door cranks open revealing the driver, a balding man in a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the bus company emblem on the breast pocket. He pokes his head out and eyes their bags.

 

“Anyone need to stow anything below?” he asks. “Those all should fit in the luggage racks,” he adds, when the first two passengers shake their heads.

 

The older woman moves toward the door, and the driver helps her get her suitcase up the three steps as she boards. The Asian man follows, ticket in one hand.

 

He clutches his duffel and the plastic bag from the deli, and steps up behind them, glancing to either side, a quick look to be certain he remains unobserved. No one draws his attention. Nothing appears out of place.

 

A gentle gust of cool air hits him in the face as he climbs onto the bus and takes in the layout. The structure appears far more luxurious than what he associates with a bus. High-backed, padded seats line either side of the aisle in pairs all the way back. He tenses at the realization that there is no second door at the rear of the bus, the lack of an alternate exit nearly enough to make him step back down. But he has already determined this is the best way for him to travel. To steal a car would risk exposure, he lacks the papers he needs to board a plane, and the idea of traveling by train ( _wind rushing, gripping cold steel, Steve calling out, reaching, stretchingslippingfallingscreaming_ ) makes his head throb.

 

The woman has settled directly behind the driver, and the man several seats back. Wanting to put distance between himself and the cluster they have formed, he pushes down the aisle, noting the windows that are marked as emergency exits. It will have to do. He finally slides into the very back row of seats, curling himself into the window with his bags on the adjoining seat and slouching down until he is barely visible from the front of the bus. The camouflaged position allows some of the tension to seep from his body.

 

“We’ve got about ten minutes before we get moving,” the driver announces. “Just gonna hang out here, wait for whoever else is coming, then we’ll be underway. I’ll honk before we leave, so if you want to stretch your legs until then, no danger of getting left behind.”

 

The other man rises at this and gets back off the bus, but the woman stays where she is. Tucked out of view, he reaches into the deli bag and pulls out one of the sandwiches. It’s a warm packet wrapped in foil, the scent drifting up and making him aware of the hollow place in his stomach. He peels back the edges and takes an enormous bite, chewing and swallowing in quick succession. The entire thing is gone in just a couple of mouthfuls, and he reaches for the second one.

 

By the time he finishes eating, three more people have boarded the bus – a middle-aged man and a young couple – and chosen seats toward the middle. The Asian man returns, and then a woman with a sleeping baby climbs aboard. No one disturbs him in his solitude.

 

“Tickets out, please,” the driver calls, then begins working his way up the aisle, checking that everyone has paid the fare. When he reaches the last row, he eyes the plastic deli bag. “Just make sure you take your trash off with you when you go.”

 

He nods at the driver and hands over his bus ticket.

 

“Okay, folks. We’re going to get a move on. We’ve got one quick stop before we leave the city, but from there we’re express to New York. So just sit back and make yourselves comfortable.”

 

The bus rumbles to life beneath him and eases into the street. They weave through the morning traffic for several minutes before pulling up to the curb again on a different corner. The driver is as good as his word, however, only pausing long enough to load three more passengers and their bags before taking off.

 

He stares out the window, watching the buildings go by, the perspective quite different from when he is walking along the streets, trying to go unnoticed. This city is so white, so clean looking. It’s an illusion, he knows, having slept more than one night in a dirty alley or abandoned building strewn with trash, but it leaves him unsettled nonetheless. He cannot trust his own eyes. Seen from the sheltered comfort of the bus, the buildings shine and sparkle, as if attempting to live up to the grand monuments that line the Mall.

 

Then they leave the city streets behind, merging onto the interstate, and the view grows less familiar, more monotonous. He stares out at the cars and trucks, at the shifting landscape. Something in the asphalt causes a steady thumping as the tires cross over it, almost hypnotic in its regularity. He scans the bus, examining the passengers as best he can from his concealed position, forcing himself to remain alert in the enclosed space. None of these people appear to be a threat, but he cannot afford to lower his guard, to ever assume he is safe. Folding his arms across his chest, he props himself into the corner where his seat meets the window and keeps a silent watch as the bus eats up miles of road.

 

~*~

 

New York City is both familiar and a mystery. It looks nothing like he expects it to, yet at the same time he thinks he has been here before, more recently than as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes heading off to war.

 

The buildings climb high around him, and everything feels so tall and noisy, busy, dirty. It’s a city of extremes, and the mad lunch-hour rush makes him forget himself for a moment, has him standing stock still on the sidewalk as the crowd streams around him, staring up like a country boy getting his first glimpse of a skyscraper, as if he could ever be such a hick. He shakes it off, reminds himself to keep moving, to adopt the posture he’s developed.

 

As different as the city is, the streets march in the same directions and it’s barely an effort to figure out east from west. Once that’s straight, his feet turn almost unbidden, and he starts walking downtown. He scans for threats, assesses the people filling the sidewalks, but it is from habit more than any sense of danger. On the contrary, he feels oddly safe here, even as he knows that he cannot possibly be. He has failed to complete his mission, he is a weapon without purpose, an asset on the run. Eventually there will be consequences for what he has done – or failed to do.

 

The streets are crowded, both with vehicles and pedestrians. He knows this is dangerous. Too many places for someone to hide, too many faces for him to assess. But he continues walking at an even pace, face angled slightly down, weaving through the crowd along with everyone else, instilling his steps with confidence and a sense of purpose. He is just another man walking down Sixth Avenue. There is no reason for anyone to search for him in Manhattan.

 

Only after he has been walking for several minutes does he realize his headache has worsened, the low-level pain that has plagued him for days ratcheting up and putting pressure behind his eyes. He’s come to associate the throbbing with a flash of memory, the pain with some fragment of his past pushing its way up through his consciousness. They vary in severity, the worst instance having brought him to his knees; he needs to get off the street.

 

He turns and heads west, off the main avenue, away from the tall office buildings and congested sidewalks, and toward a more residential neighborhood, where apartments rise a few stories above shop fronts and restaurants, trap doors lead to sheltered basements, and front doors yield to the slightest persuasion of a strong grip. He staggers into a quiet building, the entryway deserted, and conceals himself behind the stairs in the space beneath the first landing. It’s shadowed and hidden unless someone comes looking.

 

Curled into himself, head pressed against his knees, he stops fighting the onslaught. Waves of pain cascade through his mind, the pressure at his temples and behind his eyes enough to make his want to push his own fingers through his skull to provide some sort of outlet.

 

As always, when the images come they are vague, disjointed, violent. _He_ is violent. He can feel the rifle in his hands, can see the crosshairs as he lines up the shot. There’s a glimpse of rooftops with stocky water towers, a pale hand in a puddle of blood, more blood soaking a pale blue carpet. His metal fingers clench, crushing a windpipe, silencing a barely audible gasp. His nostrils fill with the smell of iron and urine and something more pungent, and he opens his eyes only to jolt to his knees and vomit onto the grungy linoleum floor beneath the stairwell.

 

By the time he’s lost the contents of his stomach, he’s shaking. He drops back away from the mess and just stops himself from wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Instead he fumbles in his bag for the trash from the deli, fishes out a paper napkin and uses that to clean his face before dropping it over the sour puddle on the floor. He has no idea how long he’s been crouched there, has lost all sense of time, but he does know he can’t stay there any longer.

 

He shoulders his bag and slips out from his hiding place, back out onto the street. He feels gutted, hollowed out, but his legs are sturdy beneath him and the headache has begun to recede. Staring up the street, back the way he came, he understands that something happened nearby – he completed a mission in this area at some point. Though he has no conscious memories of the assignment, couldn’t say who he killed, or when or where or why, it must have been quite close to have triggered his memories at all.

 

But where to go now? Which way should he walk? He was wrong to think this city anything approaching safe, merely because he has avoided Brooklyn, former home of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Is anywhere safe? Is there any place he might think to go that wouldn’t be the result of some prior conditioning that refuses to release his mind? If he turns and walks back east, will his feet automatically take him in the direction of some fresh horror?

 

It doesn’t matter. He has no choice. He cannot afford to stay still. He must evade capture, he must keep moving.

 

Grip tight on the handle of his bag, he turns and retraces his steps as far as Broadway, then turns again and continues downtown. He sets an easy, purposeful stride, and tilts his face automatically so it’s hidden beneath the brim of his cap.

 

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's plan to find the man who once was Bucky Barnes begins to take shape, but he's going to need a little help.

Studying the map spread out over Sam’s coffee table, known Hydra bases marked with plastic houses from a Monopoly game, Steve feels an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Only this time, instead of a map of Europe, he’s working with a map of the United States, game pieces dotting the eastern seaboard and drifting inland as far as Chicago, Little Rock, and Houston. There are more – of course there are – but he’s trying to narrow the scope, give them a starting point.

 

Sam lets out a low whistle. “Did he have assignments near all those locations?”

 

Steve shakes his head. “Not according to the file. Some weren’t near a Hydra base at all. But they always transported him while he was still in stasis, so if they weren’t at a base, they’d set up some sort of temporary ops center or safe house where they could bring him out of cryo and give him the mission parameters.”

 

Sam hums. “You think that means he’s not used to traveling on his own?”

 

“It’s possible. At the very least it means he probably doesn’t have a passport or any sort of I.D.”

 

“Rules out air travel. Though I’m guessing that arm would be pretty hard to sneak past security.” He shrugs at Steve’s glare. “So why mark all those bases, then?’

 

“If they’re looking for him, they’ll be coming from somewhere.” And need somewhere to secure him, he doesn’t bother to finish.

 

“I know it’s been pretty quiet, but that doesn’t mean they’ve gotten hold of him,” Sam says. “Between the military and the FBI, seems like Hydra’s had some bigger problems to deal with this week.”

 

Scraping a hand through his hair, Steve slumps back on the couch with a sigh. “I know you’re right. The only mention of him was from the attack on the causeway that day, and that was a week ago. I can’t imagine Hydra could take him without a fight, and that’s something someone is bound to have noticed. There’d be some kind of mention in the papers or at least online. Which means either he went back to Hydra voluntarily, or he’s lying low someplace.”

 

“The question is where.” Sam drops down next to him, eyeing the map. “Dude, you still want to leave in the morning? It’s not like we’re any closer to figuring out where to look first. I’m with you if you just want to start taking out Hydra bases, but I’m not sure that’s the most effective use of our time if the goal is to track down Barnes.”

 

“Natasha called him a ghost,” Steve murmurs. “Said I’d never find him, that she’d looked for him before. But that was when he had resources. If he’s on his own, he’s as good as homeless, wandering the streets…” He trails off with a frown.

 

“What are you thinking?”

 

His frown deepens. “SHIELD has a way of tracking people, visually. They can tap into all the cameras that have any kind of wireless or networking capabilities. Traffic cameras, ATMs, people’s camera phones.”

 

“Sure. They’d be able to run facial recognition software to track a person’s location. Modern-day man hunt. No leg work required. Well, at least not to start.”

 

“If we could just narrow down where Bucky went after he pulled me out of the river, get a fix on his direction, it would tell us where to look.”

 

“Great idea. You happen to have a supercomputer at your disposal? Never mind access to government satellite feeds, metro traffic uplinks, and whatever else SHIELD used to pull this sort of thing off? Because in case you haven’t noticed, SHIELD is out of business. Not that you’d want their help with this even if they weren’t.”

 

“How much computer power do you think we’re talking about?” Steve asks cautiously.

 

“Man, I’ve got no idea. But unless you know someone with a boat-load of tech at their fingertips, plus military connec—Oh. Shit. You do, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah. I kind of do.”

 

“You think Stark’d be up for helping you with this?”

 

Steve tilts his head to one side, then straightens. “Hard to say. We’re not exactly each other’s favorite person. But we worked together well enough when we needed to.”

 

“This isn’t exactly on par with saving the world from an alien invasion,” Sam points out.

 

“No, it’s not. But I’m betting he would be furious at the idea of Hydra growing inside SHIELD. Stark may have his issues with his father, but I think he’s pretty proud of the work Howard did during the war. To think Hydra used any of that to get ahead, well. I think he’ll help.”

 

He shoves himself up from the couch and goes to grab his new, store-bought laptop off the kitchen counter. A few quick keystrokes later, a list of recent news items mentioning Tony Stark populates the browser page. He scrolls, searching for anything that talks about upcoming appearances.

 

“Any luck?” Sam asks.

 

Steve nods. “Looks like we’re going to New York.”

 

~*~

 

For all that the layout of Manhattan hasn’t changed much since his childhood, Steve barely recognizes the city it’s become. There are only a few spots where, if he squints, things seem remotely familiar, and Brooklyn is even worse. It’s one of the reasons he was willing to relocate to D.C. once Fury talked him into joining SHIELD officially. Living in New York served as a constant reminder of how much has changed, of how very much out of place he feels.

 

Driving through the city, however, ranks as its own special circle of hell. All the one-way streets should make things easier, but there are so many rules to track that it barely makes a difference. Corners where you can’t turn left, others where you can’t turn at all, places where exceptions are made for buses. And forget about the taxis; he learned quickly enough that it was best to avoid those altogether, no matter whether you were driving or on foot. He was a big fan of subways before he left, or walking, and maneuvering up Park Avenue toward Stark Tower, a beacon just beyond the train station, he vows to leave the car in the garage for as long as they end up remaining in town.

 

Next to him, Sam peers out the front window at the buildings to either side. “This is where you guys fought the aliens, isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah.” He takes advantage of a red light to glance out his side window. Two years later there’s still some reconstruction underway, but the majority of the damage appears to have been repaired. “I’m kind of amazed at the progress. A few of these buildings must have been rebuilt pretty much from scratch.”

 

“I heard Stark rallied a bunch of his rich buddies to donate to the cause, and that he matched whatever they put into the reconstruction fund.”

 

Steve nods. He heard that as well, and he has to admire Stark’s willingness to give back to the city. He’s the first to accuse the man of throwing money at a problem to make it go away, but he also acknowledges that wasn’t what Tony was doing in this instance.

 

He waits patiently for a sea of pedestrians to pass through the crosswalk before turning the corner and maneuvering toward the entrance to Stark’s private parking garage, pulling up to the security check point.

 

“You sure we shouldn’t have called first?” Sam asks.

 

Steve just rolls down the window and leans forward, knowing that Stark’s AI will automatically perform a scan.

 

“Captain Rogers,” comes the familiar electronic voice. “Welcome back. I do not believe Mr. Stark was expecting you.”

 

Steve smiles. As bizarre as the concept of the AI still is, he’s taken a liking to him. “Thanks, JARVIS. And no, he’s not expecting us. Any chance we could get in to see him anyway?”

 

“Of course, sir. Please follow the directional lighting to your reserved parking spot. I’ll have an express elevator waiting for you.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

The security door rolls back and Steve continues down the short driveway and into the bowels of the building.

 

“That’s what I call service,” Sam comments.

 

Steve snorts. “I don’t pretend to understand why Stark decided to build an artificial intelligence to run his life, but I’m glad he did. JARVIS is much easier to deal with than Tony himself most of the time.”

 

As promised, green lights on the ground lead them through a maze of concrete and pipes into a small parking area already populated by a dozen or so cars, most of them expensive. Steve spies his name painted in one of the empty spots, pulls in and cuts the engine. He grabs the bag containing his computer and the file from the back, and he and Sam make for the illuminated elevator bank at the end of the row of cars.

 

The door slides closed behind them, but the elevator does not move. Sam leans over to examine the choice of floors and Steve realizes what’s going on. “JARVIS, this is my friend Sam Wilson. He helped Natasha and me with a little project back in D.C.”

 

JARVIS’s voice fills the elevator. “Of course, sir. Would that little project have involved dropping three SHIELD helicarriers into the Potomac and loosing the agency’s secrets onto the internet?”

 

“More the first than the second,” Sam pipes up. “Pleased to meet you, JARVIS.”

 

“As I am you, Mr. Wilson. Welcome to Stark Tower.”

 

“Thanks, man. And please, call me Sam.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

Steve shoots Sam an amused glance as the elevator begins moving smoothly upward. “Good luck with that,” he says.

 

The elevator rises high before coming to a silent stop. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Mr. Stark will join you in a moment.”

 

The doors part onto a wide, well-appointed living area, obviously part of Stark’s personal space. It reminds Steve of the room where the Avengers had confronted Loki in the wake of the battle, but this is a far more expansive floor, featuring a seating area with a multi-sectioned couch, a large open kitchen to the left, and a long dining table beyond it. The wall opposite the elevator bank is all glass, highlighting the prime view of the city below.

 

Sam makes his way over to the windows and stands in a puddle of sunshine, staring out. “Not too shabby.”

 

“Only the best,” Steve agrees. He drops his bag onto the couch and pulls out the StarkPhone Tony had insisted he take after New York. At the time he hadn’t known how to do much beyond turn the thing on, but he’s a lot more savvy about technology now, and when he ditched all his SHIELD-provided equipment last week, he dug the phone out of the drawer where he’d buried it. Stark’s promise of secure, tamper-and-trace-proof communications holds far more appeal than it did two years ago.

 

“No word from Natasha?” Sam asks, when he tucks the phone away again.

 

“Nah. Not that I’m really expecting to hear from her any time soon, but…”

 

“You still have to check. I get it.”

 

“Rogers! You don’t call, you don’t write. Can’t say I’m all that surprised to see you, though,” Tony announces as he strides off the elevator. He’s obviously been tinkering with something; there are grease smudges on his cheek and across the front of his dark grey t-shirt, and his jeans give the impression he’s been rolling around on a dusty floor. “You’ve been busy down there in our nation’s capital.” His assessing gaze darts directly to Sam. “And you are? No, don’t tell me. Guy with the wings, right?”

 

“Sam Wilson,” he replies with a nod, stepping over to join Steve. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“I’d shake, but…” He holds up his dirty hands in explanation. “So, can I get you guys anything? Something to drink? You eaten yet?”

 

“We grabbed a bite on the drive up,” Steve says. He’s forgotten how Stark can steamroll right through a conversation, taking over completely.

 

Tony makes a face. “That doesn’t sound like anything I’d consider actually eating. What do you feel like? Burgers? Chinese? Thai? There’s a new Mongolian place.”

 

Steve glances at Sam, who shrugs. “I could eat,” he admits. “Thai?”

 

Steve looks back to Stark. “I guess we’re up for Thai, then, if that’s good with you.”

 

“JARVIS? Usual order, just multiply appropriately for super-soldier company.”

 

“Very good, sir.”

 

“Sit, sit,” Stark says. “I’m just gonna wash up.” He wanders off toward what Steve assumes is a bathroom, humming something under his breath.

 

Sam sinks down on one end of the couch. “He always like that?” he asks quietly.

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“I thought it was just for the press, you know?”

 

“As far as I can tell, Stark only operates in high gear.” Steve drops down across from him.

 

A moment later, Stark strides back into the room, hands and face clean, hair curling damply at his temples. “Okay, so, I’m guessing this isn’t just a casual visit, old friends catching up sort of thing.”

 

“How much do you know about what’s been going on with SHIELD?” Steve asks, as Stark paces restlessly past where he sits.

 

“Officially, just what’s been running on the news. Fury killed by some crazed Soviet assassin, helicarriers dropped into the Potomac, Hydra infiltrated SHIELD, no telling the good guys from the bad, lots of top-secret files dumped into the internet, all courtesy of you two gentleman and Agent Romanoff, with a little help from former A.D. Hill. Who now works for me, by the way,” he adds. “Or, well, technically for Pepper. But I okayed it, so there you go.”

 

“And unofficially?” Steve asks.

 

Stark shrugs and looks serious. “I can read between the lines, plus I may have plied Hill with alcohol. It’s a shit storm of epic proportions. Hydra got into SHIELD under my dad’s nose and has been wreaking havoc ever since. There was no taking down one without the other; I understand that. But it leaves the good guys scrambling, and I can only guess at how many decent agents have been taken out in the last week because their ops were suddenly public knowledge. Oh no, wait, I don’t have to guess. I can look it up on the goddamn internet,” he snaps.

 

Steve stands, taken aback by Stark’s reaction. He’d expected the man to rant over whatever Stark tech had gone viral as a result of publicizing SHIELD’s servers. He should have known he would think first about the human equation.

 

“We didn’t have a choice. There was no other way to reveal Hydra for what it is, to prove what they’ve been doing all along.”

 

Stark holds up a hand. “I’m not blaming you, Rogers,” he says, suddenly sounding tired. “I had JARVIS inside those SHIELD servers two years ago and it never occurred to me to take a better look around. Maybe I’d have seen something, prevented things from getting to this point.” He drops his hand with a sigh. “There had to have been signs.”

 

“Signs that there was some sort of problem, maybe, but I doubt they left behind anything that screamed Hydra.” Steve walks over to Stark and drops a hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault either. Even Fury didn’t see this coming, and he was right in the middle of it.”

 

“Speaking of, where is Fury?” Stark asks.

 

Steve lets his hand drop. “I understand he qualified for Arlington, but he’d left orders that he be buried near his parents. Nice little cemetery outside Bethesda.”

 

Stark snorts. “Right. Hill claimed the same thing. I suppose he’s safer playing dead at this point. He’ll come out of the woodwork when he wants something. Let him know I’ve got his back if he needs it.”

 

Steve glances over at Sam, who shakes his head. “Don’t look at me, man. I just met the dude.”

 

“Setting aside the fact that Fury was gunned down in my apartment,” Steve says, turning back to Tony, “I’d have thought you’d be angry at him. You were never exactly his biggest cheerleader, and all those SI designs you gave him were on the server when we dumped it.”

 

“I never gave SHIELD anything I wasn’t willing to risk having compromised,” Stark replies. “Even I’m not so egotistical as to believe I’m the only one capable of hacking into that system. I’m good, but I’m not the only one.” He shakes his head. “As for Fury, well, he pissed me off on a regular basis, but the man was a spy and the head of an international security organization. It was his job to be a pain in my ass. God knows I returned the favor. I didn’t always like him much, and I frequently disagreed with him, but I respected him. Still do,” he adds with a wink.

 

“I suspect that, were he alive, he’d be surprised to hear that,” Steve says.

 

“Nah. Less surprised than you’d think.” He tugs a pen from the back pocket of his jeans and begins to play with it restlessly. “So, all else aside, would have been nice if you and Romanoff gave me a heads up before you staged your little takedown, maybe even asked for help. I mean, I improved the tech keeping those helicarriers in the air. Pretty sure I’d have been useful in taking them out.”

 

“There wasn’t exactly a lot of time to call for reinforcements,” Steve says, heading back over to sit down. “We only pulled Sam in because Natasha and I were hiding out at his place after SHIELD started targeting us.”

 

“Literally,” Sam muttered.

 

“What was that?” Stark asked.

 

“Let’s just say they were pretty determined to kill us,” Steve said. “Anyway, Sam volunteered because he was already there, and he knew where to access the EX-01 Falcon suit, but we only had sixteen hours from the time we learned what they intended to do with the helicarriers to launch. Not a lot of time to assemble.”

 

“Okay, I can see how it might have been difficult to get hold of, say, Thor,” Stark agrees, but I was only a few hours away. I’d have come.”

 

Steve frowns. “I don’t recall you calling anyone when you were dealing with the Mandarin,” he says.

 

“I had that covered. Mostly,” Tony replies hurriedly. “Not to mention, I don’t go crying to SHIELD for help. SHIELD just…” He holds his pen straight up like a baton and makes a quick circle in the air, “…shows up. Case in point,” he adds, dropping his hand to point the pen at Steve.

 

“This isn’t about SHIELD.”

 

“Yeah. I figured.”

 

“You did?” Sam asks.

 

“Yeah, well, Hill might have mentioned the true identity of Hydra’s mysterious unstoppable assassin. Not a stretch to assume you’re trying to track down Barnes. Bring him back from the dark side.”

 

“He saved my life,” Steve says. “He was ordered to kill me, but he saved me instead.”

 

“Rumor has it he put a few bullets in you and nearly beat you to death first, though, right?” Stark asks, his gaze probing.

 

“I know it’s probably a long shot. But I can’t let Hydra get their hands on him again. He deserves better. If there’s any way I can help him, I have to try.”

 

Stark nods. “Right. Okay, so what have we got?”

 

“Remember when Loki took Barton and SHIELD ran that computer search for him tapping into security and traffic cameras?”

 

His brows wing upward. “You want me to do a facial recognition search?”

 

“Can you?”

 

He nods slowly. “Yeah, I can. It’ll be slow, and it’s going to depend on how good a job he’s doing keeping out of sight, assuming that’s his current plan. Neither Barton nor Loki made much of an attempt to hide.”

 

“I understand, but it’s worth a shot. I’ve got this file on the Winter Soldier that Natasha tracked down for me, but there’s too much information. I need a place to start.”

 

“What can you tell me about his movements in D.C.?” He turns toward the windows, shoving his pen back into his pocket. “JARVIS, cut the lights and bring up a map of the metro-Washington area.”

 

The windows grow opaque, darkening the room, before an illuminated map of the prescribed area appears to hover in the air in front of them.

 

“Wow,” Sam murmurs.

 

“Give me locations, guys. Where do you know he’s been?”

 

Sam goes over to the map. “Here. On the causeway. That’s where he attacked us last Thursday, around two in the afternoon. And then down here, along Virginia Avenue,” he continues, “once Steve and Natasha went over the side. He chased Natasha this way,” he adds, pointing at the route, “then fought Steve here before he disappeared.”

 

“Disappeared?” Stark questions.

 

“He lost the mask he’d been wearing over the bottom half of his face while we were fighting,” Steve says. “That’s when I recognized him. I called his name, and he stopped in his tracks. Said, “Who the hell is Bucky?” He looked confused, like he was remembering for a second, but then he went to shoot me. Natasha was behind me and fired at him before he could take the shot. Once the smoke cleared he was gone.”

 

“You didn’t go after him?” Stark asks.

 

“We were surrounded by the strike team by then,” Sam says, looking at Steve with concern.

 

Steve shakes his head slightly. “The only other place we know for certain is across the river from the Triskelion,” he says, heading over to the map. “After I fell from the helicarrier, he pulled me out of the river and left me about here. He was gone by the time Sam and Natasha found me, but Natasha says she got a glimpse of him while they were circling in the helicopter.”

 

“Okay,” Stark says. “It’s not a lot to go on, but it’s a start. You have a photo I can use or should I pull up something from archives?”

 

Steve heads back to the couch and pulls out the file, flipping it open to the front. After a brief hesitation, he takes both photos and hands them to Stark.

 

“Jesus,” Stark mutters, when he gets a look at the photo of Bucky in the cryotube. “Okay, thanks. JARVIS, scan these, will you?” he says, setting the photos down on the coffee table, side by side. “I’m guessing he hasn’t aged a lot?”

 

“No. He’s been on ice almost the entire time, just thawed for training and missions. And whatever Zola gave him that allowed him to survive the fall from that train, it must be affecting him, too.”

 

“Scan complete, sir,” JARVIS states.

 

“Thanks, J. Start the facial recognition search with the two known sightings as focal points.” Stark hands the photos back to Steve, who tucks them back into the folder and returns the entire thing to his bag.

 

“Any estimate as to how long this might take?” Steve asks.

 

“Hard to say,” Stark admits. “Barnes may have changed his appearance, could be hiding out somewhere it’ll be difficult to track him. A lot depends on what sort of training they gave him. He may be wandering lost, or he might be fully capable of going to ground and staying undercover for years.”

 

“Sir, lunch has arrived,” JARVIS informs them. An instant later, the elevator opens and a young woman carries in a large plastic bag filled with take out.

 

“Thanks, Janice,” Stark says. “Just leave it in the kitchen.”

 

“Yes sir, Mr. Stark.” She does as he requests, an appealing aroma wafting in her wake, then vanishes back down the elevator.

 

“So, anyone still hungry?” Stark asks.

 

Steve shakes his head. “Sorry. I know it’s not exactly the most appetizing conversation.”

 

“No, really, I get it. Hey, you want to catch up with Banner? He’s down in the lab. J, there enough food for Bruce, too?”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

“Yeah, that would be good,” Steve agrees, hoping that even if Doctor Banner’s presence fails to divert the subject, he might have some theories to contribute on their chances of restoring Bucky’s memories.

 

“Great. JARVIS, let Bruce know we’re expecting him.”

 

“Very good, sir.”

 

“Okay, guys,” Stark says, heading into the kitchen. “Let’s eat.” He opens a couple of cabinets at random before finding a stack of plates and grabbing them. “Hey, Wilson,” he says, when Sam and Steve follow him to help. “Tell me about these wings of yours.”

 

~*~

 

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In two different parts of the city, our heroes attempt to understand the difference between memory and conditioning...

It’s late when he finds himself in front of the boarded-up building for the third time, sun set hours earlier, the city finally winding down. The nine-to-fivers have long vanished into their apartments, or onto the subways and buses and trains that whisk them away to the outer boroughs or suburbs. Evening theater-goers, drinkers, and diners have dwindled as well, leaving the nocturnal residents to roam the streets – those looking to score, to turn a trick, to scope out an open window off a fire escape or a quiet corner in an alley.

 

He’s one of that last group, despite the clean clothes and the cash in his pockets. He should have found a cheap hotel by now, or one of the hostels he overheard some kid mention. But his feet keep bringing him here, to this place, no matter how hard he tries to go in a different direction. All afternoon and into the evening, he’s struggled to take another route, find some other section of the city, but sooner or later he would lose focus, a sight or smell capturing his attention, distracting him, a fleeting flash of something familiar, and he would look up minutes or hours later to find himself back on this street with its shabby brownstones and the greasy spoon with the pink neon sign on the corner and this one single building that whispers to him of pain and ice.

 

No doubt he has been here before, but he has no memory, just this compulsion to return. The building appears abandoned, but he knows the outer shell rarely tells the entire story. His handlers were here once, Hydra or someone else, he’s not certain they were always one and the same, but he understands that they don’t always hide in plain view. So the building may indeed by empty, long since gutted of anything incriminating, or at this moment a hive could be buzzing away, hidden behind the façade or buried away in the basement.

 

Keep moving, escape detection, avoid containment at all cost. His goals remain the same. He should turn and force himself from this street, from this neighborhood, find a subway or a bus and let it carry him to a safe distance. That was his plan – to remain free. No more orders, no more missions, no more no more no more…

 

But here he stands. Again. The third time. (Or is it four?)

 

A shiny steel chain secures the gate to steps that lead down beneath the main entrance, the lock glittering in the shadows, free of rust or other signs of weathering. He’s alone on the street, alone on the sidewalk in front of the building. Three steps and he’s part of the shadows, melding, blending. The lock snaps in his hand and the chain drops free. He pushes the gate open and vanishes down into the darkness.

 

The basement door, unboarded, offers no greater challenge. He pulls a small blade from inside his jacket and quietly disables the connection to the alarm system, then pops the jamb. He slips into a dark vestibule, no light visible from farther inside, and draws the door back in place behind him. For a moment he stands motionless, listening, waiting for any indication he has given himself away, but all remains quiet, no one storming out of the dark or attempting to escape upward into the building proper.

 

It takes a couple of seconds to locate a light switch and discover that someone is still paying for electric. Several ceiling fixtures flare to life, illuminating a large room. The dim bulbs flicker over an institutional tile floor strewn with papers, a wall of file cabinets gaping empty, and several computers with their hard drives torn out. A desk chair has been toppled over on its side, and one of a row of desks sits at a slight angle to its counterparts. Someone has evacuated in a hurry, and with the intent of covering their tracks.

 

He moves stiffly through the room, scanning every dark corner, making certain no stragglers remain, but he finds no one. He sets down his bag and sifts through the papers on the floor, but they prove useless, mostly invoices for generic supplies. An enormous trash bag stuffed with shredded paper speaks to the destination of anything more valuable. Beyond the file cabinets, he discovers a narrow doorway and immediately to the left a corridor leading to what can only be considered a cell, sectioned off from the hallway by a wall of bars, the door gaping open. Inside, bolted to the floor, sits a half-reclined chair with wide metal cuffs on the arm and leg rests. Whatever other equipment once surrounded the chair has been removed, pale shadows on the floor the only sign that something was there.

 

A burning pressure begins to build in his chest, directly beneath  his breast bone, and he clenches his fists, metal fingers snapping shut. Teeth clench automatically, nothing to protect them from grinding against each other, and he feels something in his temple pop. A deafening sound cracks open the silence, a roar that reverberates through the narrow space, bouncing off the low ceiling, and he falls against the wall behind him, as far from the cell as he can get, knees buckling and sending him sliding to the floor.

 

He wants to tear the chair to pieces, wants to rip the restraints from their moorings and throw them through a wall, needs to rain down his pain and frustration and the sudden feeling of being lost _so lost no place to go where where what next no one nothing noooooooo…._

 

They took things from him, stole them from him. He was James Buchanan Barnes ( _Bucky, you’ve known me your whole life_ ), he was a soldier and a friend, and they made him no one, made him a weapon. They unmade him and remade him again and again, they sat him in this chair, in so many of these chairs, and told him to shoot, to kill, to eliminate, and scrubbed him of anything else. He is nothing but holes, nothing but jagged shrapnel left in the places they wiped smooth. They made him theirs, called him an asset, a tool they stored on ice until needed.

 

His fingers itch to destroy, to pound, to rend, but he cannot rise, cannot bring himself to move one step closer to the far end of the hall. Despite the deserted building, the empty basement, he knows, he knows what will happen if he enters the cell. The chair. The guard. The metal teeth biting at his brain, surging pain, icy blankness. He knows what happens in the cell, in the chair. He cannot move any closer.

 

The roar lessens and cuts out, and he realizes his throat aches and his mouth is dry. He sits panting, pressed against the wall, unable to tear his eyes from the chair, from the cell until a sudden sparking sound from the main room has him reaching automatically for his pistol and pushing himself up and back around the corner. There’s an odd sputtering and one of the overhead bulbs goes out, but all else is still.

 

One door remains unexamined. It opens easily, revealing stairs to the main floor. He moves upward stealthily but finds the rest of the building even more deserted than the basement, furnishings largely removed, with only the occasional floor lamp or end table left behind. But the floors are clean and free of dust, suggesting, along with the new exterior lock, that the exodus was a recent one.

 

The building holds no true clues beyond vague memories of mission prep, of returning to report. He does not recall the target or targets, when the mission took place, if he was here more than once, to whom he reported. The upper stories tell him even less, making it likely he was limited to the basement.

 

He goes back down the stairs, making no attempt to move quietly this time. He hesitates a few feet from the doorway that leads to the cell, far enough back that he cannot see around the corner. But he knows the chair is there, can feel it as if it calls to him, the inevitability of finding himself strapped down while his mind gets wiped clean like a red light pulsing through fog.

 

Turning away, he grabs up his duffel and heads for the door. He needs to get clear of the building, needs to keep moving, to put distance between himself and this place, with its pulsing, insidious pain and the icy fingers reaching to pull him down, to trap him, to press into his skull. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving.

 

He’ll leave. He’ll pick a destination and take a subway. He won’t risk walking, won’t allow his feet to bring him back here again. He can choose to leave. They can’t make him stay. He won’t come back. He’ll make sure of it.

 

~*~

 

Steve stands in Stark’s kitchen having just finished loading the dishwasher and stares out into the living room where Sam, Dr. Banner, and Stark himself have each claimed a corner of one of the couches, absorbed in their respective tasks. Sam’s using Steve’s laptop – though Stark had mocked it mercilessly when Steve pulled it out of his bag, promising to upgrade him as soon as possible – running searches for news clips, pro or amateur, that might possibly reference a Winter Soldier sighting. Stark pecks rapidly at his StarkPad, though what exactly he’s doing isn’t clear. Banner is engrossed in the Winter Soldier file, which Steve had finally decided to share, his expression serious, glasses sliding down his nose, one hand clutching a pencil that he uses to jot the occasional note on a pad resting beside him.

 

After lunch, which had been unexpectedly pleasant, Steve had half expected Stark to toss them out with a promise to let them know if JARVIS found anything. Instead, Dr. Banner quietly requested that Steve and Sam recount everything that happened in D.C., his obvious interest the only indication that he’d been politely restraining his curiosity until they’d finished eating. When Steve agreed, Banner had made another pot of the soothing tea they’d been drinking through the meal, and they all settled back in the living area.

 

Steve did his best to recall all the details of the past two weeks, starting with meeting Sam and Natasha retrieving him for the Lemurian Star op, through his conversation with Fury and the reveal of the helicarriers, his ongoing questions about SHIELD’s tactics, Fury in his apartment, already injured, followed by the shots fired through the window that started the entire landslide of secrets and corruption.

 

Banner interrupted when Steve talked about chasing the Winter Soldier. “Did you realize who he was at that point?”

 

Steve shook his head. “He wore a mask over the bottom half of his face, plus goggles, and it was dark out. I was chasing his dust for most of the time. Only caught a brief glimpse of him on the rooftop when I threw the shield and he caught it one-handed.”

 

“He _caught_ it?” Bruce repeated, well aware of the force behind Steve’s throws.

 

“Metal arm,” Steve said with a nod. “That much I could see, even in the dark. He threw it back, a precise reverse of the arc I’d used. The impact sent me sliding a couple of feet. That’s how I knew, beyond the arm, that he wasn’t a normal assassin.”

 

“Like they’d send a normal assassin after Fury,” Stark said.

 

Steve had gone on to finish the story, with the occasional interjection from Sam and question from Banner, avoiding mention of Fury rejoining them after the attack on the causeway, playing up Hill’s participation in their attack on the Insight helicarriers and escape from the Triskelion. He had wrapped up with Natasha bringing him the file, and her intention to disappear for a while once she was no longer required to testify for the Senate hearings.

 

Stark remained silent, clearly still intent on learning the truth about Fury, but it was Banner who spoke up and asked if they could see the file. Even Sam hadn’t asked to see its contents, and Steve was reluctant to share, but the reality was he needed these men’s assistance, and he trusted them not to take the information in the file and use it against Bucky.

 

He starts up the dishwasher and heads out to rejoin the others. They’ve been poring over the Winter Soldier information for hours at this point, having paused only for a late dinner of leftover Thai and some fruit scrounged from the fridge. An enormous U.S. map lights up the space in front of the windows where the D.C. map was earlier, the Hydra bases illuminated in red, their locations a combination of those listed in the file and those JARVIS has culled from the data released to the internet. Steve pauses in front of it, frowning at the numerous red markers, anger simmering low in his gut.

 

“We should put up the rest of them,” Stark comments.

 

Steve glances over to find himself being watched. “Rest of what?”

 

“Bases. Hydra’s dug their tentacles in all over the world.”

 

Steve turns back to the map as it exists. “I’m trying to narrow the search, not expand it. Besides, Bucky can’t exactly hop a plane to some remote location.”

 

“No,” Stark agrees, “but that’s not to say he can’t slip aboard a boat. Slower but still just as effective, and security’s nowhere near as tight,” he adds, sounding rueful.

 

“He’s got a point,” Sam agrees. “If all he wants to do is get lost, that’s a good way to do it.”

 

“Actually, that’s a pretty unlikely motivator,” Banner says.

 

“How so?” Steve asks, turning to the doctor.

 

Banner sets aside the file folder and slips off his glasses, resting them on top. He leans forward, elbows brace against his knees. “Barnes has been subjected to years of conditioning. Even if you subtract the time spent in stasis, he spent weeks on end undergoing rigorous brainwashing. It’s not just about them wiping his memories; they spent a huge amount of time indoctrinating him early on so certain basic behaviors would stick, even after a wipe. A lot of it’s muscle memory – how to handle various weapons, hand-to-hand combat, probably how to fly a plane – whatever skills he’d utilize over and over again, building on the foundation of what he learned in the army. There wouldn’t have been time to retrain him for each mission.”

 

“Okay, fine, but what does that have to do with how he’d behave in this situation? No one’s ordering him to kill anyone,” Steve asks.

 

“That’s the problem right there,” Banner continues. “He’s been trained to expect a mission. They’d wake him up, prep him, send him out. Then he’d report back once he’d taken out his target, they’d wipe him and put him under. Over and over. That’s a form of conditioning right there. If we assume he’s on his own, he’s directionless, and that’s going to confuse him. It’s not a situation he’s familiar with. He hasn’t been trained to make decisions, to come up with a plan. Exactly the opposite. Probably, he can redirect in response to a change in a situation, knows how to improvise enough to accomplish his mission if something goes wrong, but it’s likely in the event of any major diversion, he was trained to report in and get revised orders. Something like this, where he’s deliberately failed to kill his target?” Banner shrugs. “His conditioning will likely push him to report back for new orders, maybe for punishment. Even if he resists, it’s going to make it that much more difficult for him to function.”

 

“You got all that from reading Natasha’s translation?” Steve asks, frowning.

 

“Yeah, well, I have enough background knowledge to extrapolate a bit,” Banner admits.

 

“So all that means hopping a freighter or hiding out on some ocean liner are probably a bit too ambitious?” Sam asks.

 

“He’d need a reason. Unless it’s something he’s done before, repeatedly, and there’s nothing in this file to indicate he traveled by boat for any of his missions, at least not while conscious,” Banner replies.

 

“Okay. No boats, then,” Stark says.

 

“Excuse me, sir,” JARVIS breaks in.

 

“What’s up, J? You got a hit already?”

 

“I have yet to find any matches in the D.C.-metro area for the photographs of Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS replies. “However, a fire has just been reported in a structure in Greenwich Village. The address matches that of one of the Hydra bases mentioned in the file Agent Romanoff procured for Captain Rogers.”

 

“Put it up,” Stark orders. Instantly, the illuminated map zooms into the New York area, focusing in until a single red marker is framed in lower Manhattan.

 

“You’ve been monitoring all the Hydra bases, JARVIS?” Sam asks.

 

“No, Mr. Wilson, but I do run a standing cross check against calls to the city’s emergency services for any location that appears in our database. It has proven useful in more than one instance.”

 

Stark frowns. “I don’t recall ordering that cross check, JARVIS.”

 

“No, sir. Miss Potts requested it.”

 

“So this Hydra base, it’s on fire right now?” Steve asks.

 

“It is. The fire department has been dispatched and should be on sight in six point four minutes,” JARVIS reports.

 

Stark’s already moving for the elevator. “Who’s up for a field trip?”

 

“Wait, I don’t understand. Why do we care that one of Hydra’s safe houses is burning?” Sam asks. “Saves us doing it later on.”

 

“There’s a chance someone purposefully set the blaze. Maybe Hydra themselves, or maybe someone with an unanticipated emotional response to the location,” Banner says, taping on the folder cover.

 

“You think Bucky did this. That he’s here in New York,” Steve states, already knowing the answer.

 

Banner nods. “I’d say it’s a good possibility.”

 

“But he doesn’t remember his previous missions. They wipe him after each one. The file says that. Why would he even go there?”

 

“Steve, we don’t know what he remembers. It’s true he might never be the man you once knew, but the fact that they wiped him so religiously each time says they were worried about him retaining anything to their disadvantage. You said he seemed like he was remembering when you called him by name. Something about you was familiar enough that he pulled you out of the water.”

 

“Okay, deep discussions later,” Stark says. “Who’s coming with?”

 

“I am,” Steve says, striding after Stark.

 

“I’m in,” Sam agrees.

 

Banner shakes his head a bit regretfully. “I think I’d better stay here. A burning building sounds a little too… fraught for me. Call if you need anything.”

 

Stark nods brusquely. “JARVIS, start running a secondary facial recognition search for Manhattan over the last forty-eight hours. Check train stations, bus depots, ferry crossings, whatever the hell else you can think of. Make sure you tap all the cameras in Times Square.”

 

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS replies, as the elevator doors open to admit them.

 

“Maybe you oughta bring your shield, Cap,” Stark suggests. “Just to be safe.”

 

“I don’t have it,” Steve says, as the elevator shuts and begins its descent.

 

“What do you mean? You leave it back in D.C.?”

 

“You could say that,” Steve says. “It’s at the bottom of the Potomac.”

 

“What?” Stark half-shouts after a long, painful pause.

 

Steve glances at him over his shoulder as the elevator doors open into the garage. “I might have left a few details out, before,” he admits.

 

“Ya think?” Stark mutters. He pushes forward, past Steve and Sam, and heads for the first car in the row. “Let’s go.”

 

~*~

 

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve, Tony, and Sam head downtown to check out the fire at the Hydra base, not knowing what they might find.

Stark drives the way he flies in his suit: fast and precise and with very little regard for the laws – of nature or society. Steve can only be thankful that fate seems to be on their side. Traffic’s sparse due to the hour and, once they hit Seventh Avenue, the lights seem to anticipate their arrival, turning green until it’s pretty much a straight shoot all the way downtown.

 

They’re still a few blocks out when JARVIS pipes up, his voice ringing through the confines of the car and making Sam jump in the back seat. “The fire department has arrived on the scene, and NYPD has closed the block to any additional vehicles, sir.”

 

“Thanks, JARVIS,” Spark replies, tone a bit grim. He’s white knuckling the steering wheel and his brows are drawn together. “What’s parking like over there?”

 

“You mean you’re not planning to just stop and get out?” Sam mumbles, clutching at the door as Stark accelerates around a yellow cab and zips back toward the center of the street.

 

“South side street cleaning scheduled for tomorrow in that neighborhood. No parking after six a.m.,” the AI replies.

 

“Which means most everyone’s already switched over,” Stark says. “Excellent.” He raises an eyebrow when he realizes Steve is staring at him. “What?”

 

“I just didn’t expect you to be aware that alternate side of the street parking even exists,” he says.

 

“Yeah, well, it’s not always convenient to park in a garage, you know? And Pepper maybe, sorta yelled at me for all the tickets I was getting,” he admits.

 

He slows as they reach Sheridan Square and turns west, maneuvering through the narrow streets. A bright red glow is visible above the typical brightness of the street lights and Stark sits up a little straighter, obviously scanning for a parking spot.

 

“Is that one?” Steve asks, pointing.

 

“Uh, no, fire hydrant. However… that is,” he says, sounding vaguely triumphant. He veers to the left, pulling up a bit and then backing effortlessly into the narrow parking spot.

 

Steve has his door open before Tony can cut the ignition, and takes off at a sprint. He’s less familiar with the streets in this part of the city, never having spent much time in Manhattan as a kid, and counting on the more regular grid uptown to keep from getting lost. But now that he’s out of the car, the sounds of the fire fighters at work are unmistakable, the combination of shouting, flying debris, and the rattle of equipment vaguely reminiscent of moments during the war.

 

When he clears the corner and gets a good look at the blazing building, however, he’s catapulted back to the night just over a week earlier when he’d carried Natasha out of the burning bunker beneath the remains of Camp Lehigh, the world around them in flames, and he stutters to a stop, muscles suddenly feeling weak.

 

“Steve, man, you all right?” Sam asks, coming up behind him, with Stark on his heels. “Whoa,” he murmurs, catching a glimpse of what has Steve’s attention. “Not much chance of them salvaging that.”

 

Stark stares past them, shaking his head. “My guess is they’re trying to save the adjoining buildings at this point. Come on, let’s get a closer look. See if anyone knows what started it.”

 

He heads down the sidewalk, striding purposefully up to a police officer manning the barrier and stopping to speak to him. His head tips toward the man, his expression serious as he gestures, and it’s clear he’s trying to be heard over the chaos beyond them.

 

Half hypnotized by the flames, Steve steps off the curb into the empty street and begins walking toward the center of the block, weaving easily between the various emergency vehicles. No one seems interested in stopping him, though he’s vaguely aware of a couple of voices that sound like they might be asking him something. But he doesn’t really pay attention, completely focused on the building engulfed by the fire.

 

He comes to a stop far enough away that he’s clear of the men working to put out the conflagration, not wanting to hamper their efforts. They seem to have broken through the front door to access the interior of the building, and even through the flames it’s clear that the windows on the lower levels had been boarded up at some point. Was this a defunct Hydra base? Something no longer in use? Or had they hidden behind an illusion, the way Schmidt had buried his base under a mountain back in the forties?

 

Sam comes up beside him again. “What happened here?” he murmurs. “JARVIS said this was one of the bases in Natasha’s file. I’m guessing that means Barnes had a mission in New York.”

 

Steve just nods. He doesn’t want to think in those terms. If Bucky’s in New York, he hopes it’s because he’s searching for his past – his _real_ past – rather than being haunted by the men and women he’s killed during his time as the Winter Soldier.

 

“Okay,” Stark says, walking up behind them. “Looks like it started about twenty minutes ago. No indication yet what caused it, but they’re leaning toward arson over, say, old faulty wiring or a homeless guy tossing a cigarette, because of how fast it went up and how hot it’s burning.”

 

“They suspect someone used an accelerant,” Sam says.

 

“Got it in one,” Stark agrees.

 

“Did they want to know why you were asking questions?” Sam asks.

 

“I said I was driving by, stopped when I saw the flames because I thought it was a friend’s street but turns out they live a block over.”

 

“Quick thinking.”

 

“I try,” Stark says, but he nudges Steve’s shoulder. “Cap, you see anything?”

 

Steve shakes his head slowly. He’s been scanning the street, in and around the fire trucks and police barriers, past the couple dozen or so people who have come out of their buildings to watch the firemen hosing down the flames.

 

“If it was him, wouldn’t he be long gone by now?” Sam asks. “Not exactly safe to hang around.”

 

“Why not?” Stark asks. “Not like there’s much of a search going on for him, us excepted, of course. If he’s changed his clothes, put on something with long sleeves…” He shrugs. “He’d pass for just another guy walking down the street.”

 

“Still, why risk lingering at the scene?” Sam presses.

 

Steve feels a sudden jolt. “To make sure the job was done,” he says, recalling the night Fury was shot in his apartment, catching sight of the then-mysterious gunman through the shattered window. He pivots, jerking his head upward, and scans along the roofline of the buildings across the street. One building down, he thinks he sees something, movement, then a familiar gaze for just a split second before it’s gone.

 

He darts across the street and runs toward the far end of the block, searching for access to the rear of the buildings. There has to be an alley between or behind them. He can hear pounding feet as Sam and Stark follow him, but he can’t afford to wait for them to catch up. If Bucky spotted them, he’s already running again.

 

Careening around the corner at the end of the street, Steve spots what must be the entrance to the alley he needs. He races into the narrow space and keeps going until he reaches the first fire escape, then takes a flying leap, catching the end of the ladder and hauling himself up. The rusted metal groans beneath his abrupt weight but it holds, and he climbs up as fast as he can, bouncing off the wall of the building with each turn. It’s just four flights and he’s dragging himself onto the roof, searching frantically for any sign of movement.

 

At the far end of the block of buildings, past the phone cables and satellite dishes and ancient water towers, a figure runs along the rooftop. Steve takes a few swift steps forward and yells, “Bucky!”

 

The figure stops and jerks in his direction. For a moment, both men stand frozen in place, separated by the length of a small city block and the acrid smell of smoke on the air. Then Bucky shakes his head, runs a few more yards, and vanishes into the darkness beyond the edge of the roof.

 

Steve longs to continue, to give chase, but he knows Bucky could have taken off in any direction and he’ll never reach the end of the block fast enough to track him. He stands there a few moments, gaze pinned to the place where Bucky last stood, until he hears Sam calling him from down below. Turning, he eases himself over the side of the roof and drops back into the well of the fire escape.

 

“Coming,” he calls down, as he begins to descend.

 

Sam’s alone in the alley when Steve reaches the ground. “Where’s Stark?”

 

“Went to get the car. Said he’d meet us one block over,” he nods, “away from the commotion. So?” he asks, eyes glancing upward. “Was it him?”

 

“Yeah. Didn’t really get a great look, but he stopped for a second when I called his name.”

 

“Which means he knows you’re in New York now.”

 

Steve arches an eyebrow at him. “I think he knew before then. Pretty sure he was watching us earlier when we were looking around and asking questions.”

 

“You think he’ll bolt?”

 

“Leave town?” Steve confirms. “I don’t know. I suppose it depends on why he’s here to begin with. If he just wanted to torch the Hydra base, then…” He trails off with a shrug.

 

They wander out of the alley and wait on the near corner. Steve stares at the oncoming traffic, ostensibly keeping an eye out for Tony, but his mind’s drifting. Why had Bucky come to New York? And why Manhattan rather than Brooklyn? It suggested he was drawn by the Soldier’s memories rather than the memories of Bucky Barnes.

 

“There’s Stark,” Sam says, stepping toward the curb and waving.

 

Tony pulls up and they climb in. No sooner do the doors close than he’s darting off into the light traffic, turning to head back uptown.

 

“I’ve got JARVIS narrowing the search to lower Manhattan,” he says, “with a focus on subway entrances, buses and trains, and all other points of egress.”

 

“Meaning?” Steve asks.

 

“You know, bridges, tunnels. That’s assuming it was him, yes?”

 

“It was him.”

 

“Did he say anything?” Sam asks. “When you called out to him?”

 

“No. He just stopped and looked at me. Then he kind of shook his head and took off again.”

 

“Hmm,” Stark says. “I suppose it’s better than taking a shot at you. Seeing as how you can’t _shield_ yourself,” he adds.

 

“Drop it, Tony, I’m not in the mood,” Steve says.

 

“Fine. But my point stands. At least for the time being, he doesn’t seem interested in killing you. I call that a win, in the battle if not the war.”

 

“He’s right,” Sam says. “Each time you see him and he doesn’t act against you, he’s making a clear choice to disobey his orders. That’s good, Steve.”

 

“I know. I just… I wish he’d let me close enough to talk to him.”

 

“We’ll get there,” Stark says. “Meanwhile, let’s head back to the tower. I’ve got plenty of space. You guys can bunk in, get some sleep.”

 

“Not sure I’ll be able to,” Steve admits.

 

“Give it a try. I’ll wake you up the minute JARVIS finds something,” Stark tells him. “Promise.”

 

“Let’s just get back and see,” Steve says.

 

~*~

 

He rides the subway all night. There’d been no conscious thought, just panic, and the urgent thrumming in his head, demanding that he keep moving. He’d run, flown, down the side of the building, down the street, down, down, down into the nearest subway. He’d been on an uptown train, doors closing, before it dawned on him no one had given chase.

 

It had been a mistake to stay and watch the fire. Stupid. There is no mission, no orders to report back with a detailed analysis of the operation and its results. He could have been detained, questioned, with no handlers available to ensure his escape. He should have lit the fire and vanished.

 

Instead he stayed, watched, and Steve had appeared.

 

Steve is in New York. At first, he had questioned his eyes, thought it just another weird trick of memory, but then the other man was there as well, the one who’d worn the wings, and he had known it was real.

 

The train rocks steadily through the dark tunnel, its motion somehow soothing. They make periodic stops, a mangled voice announcing each street through the speaker near the door, people standing to get out, more coming in from the platform. He remains alert, aware, but part of his mind continues to wander, to take this new piece of information and turn it this way and that in an attempt to understand. Steve is here. He came, not just to New York, but to the building, to the fire. How did he know where to look? How could Steve possibly have followed him? Were his actions so predictable? Had he given himself away? It is a disturbing puzzle.

 

They’ve climbed all the way through midtown before it occurs to him to examine the map that lists the stations. He counts the stops, determines where he is, and when the train pulls into Washington Heights, he gets off. There are signs on the platform, and he follows them easily, switching sides of the track and boarding a train that will take him back downtown.

 

The ride encourages thoughtfulness, the rhythmic lull calming. He feels he can consider the situation without triggering the headaches or the erratic flashes of memory. He supposes the subway is somehow a neutral area.

 

Steve has found him. How is not important. He is here, was looking for him, knew who had set the fire. He climbed to the roof and called his name. (That _name. Bucky. You’ve known me your whole life_.) But why? Why has he come? What does he want? Not to fight. He refused to fight. ( _You’re my friend_.)

 

He’s not that man. He is not the captain’s friend. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes fell from a train during the war. The friend is gone, dead.

 

The train continues its downtown trek. When it pulls into the financial district, he gets off again, switches tracks, boards an uptown train. He rides the train all night, uptown and down, his thoughts a tangle in his head. Only when the clock in a station declares it to be nearly morning does he finally climb up out of the subway tunnels and begin to walk the streets again.

 

~*~

 

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce offers up a theory that gives Steve a bit of hope, even as Bucky is drawn to a place from his past.

There are things he should do. The water bottle in his bag has been empty for hours. He’s not sure the last time he ate. But this part of the city still sleeps, businesses shuttered, and the need to take care of his body falls by the wayside compared to the compulsion to move, to find the thing plaguing his thoughts.

 

It began on the subway, sparked by the understanding that Steve is looking for him. He had turned the moment over in his mind, that instant on the roof, separated from Steve by space and smoke and the scent of burning things, and it had felt… familiar. Just the ghost of a memory, a sense that things were somehow wrong – the distance too far, Steve lacking a helmet, his own fingers flexing and finding metal instead of flesh. It was no more than a glimmer of another point in time, but he knew, somehow, that while he chose to run ( _move move keep moving_ ), he had refused to in the past. Refused to leave without Steve. Steve, who had been looking for him; Steve, who came for him. Steve, who would come no matter what.

 

The knowledge makes something tighten in his chest. He thinks this must be a real memory, not just something pieced together by observation and circumstance, but a true moment somehow lingering in his mind. A bridge over flames. A bridge over city streets. ( _The man on the bridge. Who was he?_ )

 

He stares at the street signs, only half understanding what he searches for, yet his instincts lead him on until he finds City Hall with its small park and a row of idling police cars. Still, his attention focuses elsewhere, on the walkway leading to the bridge.

 

It’s old. Older than he, older than Steve. A fixture. While so much else about this city feels new and transient, unexplained and unexpected, this is solid, dependable, a marvel when it was built ( _The eighth wonder of the world!_ ) but no less useful now that its initial achievement has been surpassed.

 

Beyond it lies Brooklyn, home to Steven Rogers and James Barnes, to their childhood, their past. Not his home, not his place. He does not belong there. But here, the bridge between that so many people cross every day, that he might claim, this he might be able to share.

 

He stands at the entrance to the long walkway above the traffic. On the lower level, cars zip along at a steady clip, tires thumping regularly over seams in the pavement, while above only a few pedestrians make their way across the broad expanse, walkers, runners, an occasional bike. Lanes are marked, a person walking painted to one side, a bike painted to the other. He keeps well out of the way of both, watching them come and go, feeling the damp breeze on his skin.

 

When he finally steps out and begins his own journey across the bridge, there is a strange sense of anticipation. Nothing like the even patience of waiting for a mark to come into view, or watching to confirm the kill shot; this feels both more vital and somehow less weighted down. Whatever happens here, there will be no consequences, no failure to account for, no report to make. He feels compelled to be here, and yet it is his choice and only his choice.

 

The wind picks up as he moves forward, the bridge leaving the shelter of dry land and stretching out over the depths of the East River. On his left, he can see the Manhattan Bridge further uptown, a pale imposter. Ahead the sun cracks over the horizon, struggling to chase away the heavy gray clouds that perch above the skyline and threaten the city with a drenching. The skyline itself could be that of any small city; modern Brooklyn holds no memories for him, would hold none for Steve Rogers or for James Barnes, at least not at this distance, the outline having no doubt altered many times over the decades.

 

But this bridge, this Brooklyn Bridge. He moves to one side, out of way of anyone walking by, sets his duffel at his feet and leans against the railing, looking out over the water. This is timeless. This remains the same. If he focuses down at the deep dark blue-black, at the white chop from passing boats, the bobbing currents, this goes on. It was here before the city, before Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes went to war, before Steve Rogers became Captain America. And it will be here when they are long fallen to dust.

 

He thinks he’s stood here before, maybe many times. If he closes his eyes, he can feel a hot phantom sun beating down on bare arms, hear the ghost of laughter, sense the presence of another standing close at his side, leaning on the rail, sharing a lazy summer afternoon. It seems like something boys would do. Maybe it’s not a memory. Maybe it’s something else.

 

A gust of wind shifts direction and he’s forced to grasp at his cap before it takes flight. He shoves it down more firmly, reaches below his jacket collar and tugs out the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling it up over the cap. Then he leans his elbows on the rail again, listens to the rhythmic hum of the traffic below, and watches the river go by.

 

~*~

 

 “Still nothing, JARVIS?” Steve asks, though he hates to harass the AI. He knows he’ll tell him if he gets another bead on Bucky’s location, but the waiting is killing him and he just can’t seem to help checking in.

 

“No, sir,” JARVIS replies politely, his artificial voice somehow holding a wealth of understanding. “As far as I can tell, Sergeant Barnes has not emerged from the subway since he entered last night, and I am monitoring all possible exits.”

 

“Thanks,” Steve says, staring out the window at the still-dark city below. “Are the others asleep?”

 

“Mr. Wilson is,” he confirms. “Dr. Banner and Sir remained up after you retired,” he adds with clear disapproval.

 

“Sorry, JARVIS. I’ll have a word with them. They didn’t need to do that.”

 

“It is not your doing, Captain. They are both adults, fully capable of ignoring their bodily needs without your assistance.”

 

Steve goes out to find an elevator waiting for him, and takes it up to the common area where he’d last seen Stark and Banner. He had only agreed to try to rest when Sam had pointedly reminded him he’d not slept the night before, and even then it was more because he knew Sam himself was fading and unlikely to sleep if Steve stayed up. However, he’d been more than a little dismayed to discover that Stark’s casual offer of a place to crash actually translated to his own furnished apartment, complete with master suite, guest room, and art studio, one of an apparent set Stark had constructed for the Avengers during his remodel in the wake of the Battle of New York. Sam had accepted the offer of the guest room – though Stark let them know he had other guest accommodations available – and Steve had gone into the master, taken aback anew by the enormous bed with the surprisingly firm-yet-comfortable mattress. He had tried to sleep, because he said he would, if only for an hour or two, but his thoughts had been too chaotic and he’d eventually ended up pacing restlessly when he wasn’t just staring unseeing at the view.

 

The elevator doors open to reveal Stark and Banner standing in front of an elaborate holographic flow chart. Gone are the maps from earlier; instead they seem to have created a timeline based on the Winter Soldier’s known missions, including month and year for each operation as well as the location. Stark’s gesturing broadly, in danger of spilling the mug of coffee clutched in one hand, while Banner’s gaze alternates between the enormous display and the pad of paper he’s scribbling on.

 

Stark glances over as the doors close behind Steve. “Cap, hey, come here.”

 

Banner looks up, brows furrowing. “You don’t look like you got any sleep, Steve.”

 

“I tried,” he shrugs, joining them. “You got something?”

 

“Not sure,” Banner replies. “But look at this.” He points at a mission from the early 1980s. “This seems to have been Barnes’s last time in New York, assuming no additional trips here after the file ends.” He moves his hand along the timeline, indicating each successive mission. “If they wiped his memory every time he reported back, we’re looking at close to a dozen instances since then. By all rights, he should have no memory of that Hydra base. Not its location or the fact that he’d ever been there.”

 

“Too many hypotheticals,” Stark says, shaking his head. “You’re not just assuming he hasn’t been here since, you’re assuming they do a total wipe. Clearly he remembers how to shoot, how to function, between assignments. They leave plenty of other information in his head, why not the location of the base?”

 

“Because you don’t worry about your asset giving shooting lessons if he’s captured,” Steve says. “You worry about him giving away your classified intel.”

 

“Plus much of what he retains is muscle memory, a different sort of conditioning,” Banner adds.

 

“Fine. But we’ve got nearly a decade here unaccounted for. This file doesn’t include the hit on Fury, doesn’t even mention Pierce,” Stark points out.

 

“Given the gaps all along, it’s a pretty safe guess that he was in stasis for a portion of that time,” Banner says.

 

“Putting all that aside for the moment,” Steve says, “what were you trying to say before? About the memory wipes?”

 

Bruce nods. “If he recalled the location of the Hydra base enough to go there, that means that on some level, he’s retaining at least a portion of his memories. The wipes aren’t total, or at least not permanently.”

 

“You think he’s remembering. That it’s not just stuff that they neglected to clear, but memories he’s actually getting back?”

 

“You said it yourself, Steve,” Banner continues. “He should have been killed when he fell from that train. Whatever experiments Zola did on him, whatever he gave him – whether it was a variation on the super solider serum you got or something else entirely – kept him alive. If he’s fast healing the way you are, it won’t just be physical. It will extend to his brain’s ability to adapt and rebuild.”

 

“To his memories,” Steve says.

 

Banner nods. “Given how often they were wiping his mind, it’s the most logical explanation for why he’s still functioning. Truthfully, that sort of trauma? He should be catatonic by now,” he says gently. “It would also help explain why they were so diligent about wiping him. It might have been a form of insurance, to maintain control. They needed him to _stay_ a blank slate.”

 

“So he might genuinely be remembering things,” Steve breathes. “Might be able to get back at least some of who he was.”

 

“Not just who he was,” Stark states, his voice holding a cautionary tone. “Who he’s been.”

 

Steve frowns.

 

Stark shakes his head. “He was Bucky Barnes for what? Twenty-six, twenty-seven years? He’s been the Winter Soldier for seventy. Even accounting for time on ice, that’s a lot of years he’s been marching off to kill people on Hydra’s say so. Not all his memories are going to be stick ball and Coney Island, you get that?”

 

“It’s a package deal, Steve,” Banner agrees.

 

“I understand. I just… He looked so lost. When we were fighting on the helicarrier. He was so confused. I just want him to be able to have a life away from Hydra, away from that horror.”

 

“Excuse me, sir,” JARVIS broke in, “but Sergeant Barnes has just departed the subway station on Chambers Street. He is currently heading in an easterly direction on foot.”

 

Steve snaps to attention. “Can you tell his destination, JARVIS? Are there any Hydra bases in that area? Or anything SHIELD related?” he adds as an afterthought.

 

“I’m sorry, Captain, but his pace and meandering seem to indicate he either has no set goal or is unsure of his path.”

 

“Let’s go,” Stark says, already making for the elevator.

 

“No, wait,” Steve says. “He’ll be long gone by the time we drive down there. JARVIS, how long will an express subway take?”

 

“Allowing for stops, it is a minimum of twenty-five minutes at this time of day.”

 

Banner looks at Stark. “Don’t you have a motorcycle down there in the garage?” he asks rather pointedly.

 

Steve turns to see Stark making a face. “Fine,” he agrees, clearly reluctant. “Take it, Cap. Parked just past the Bentley. You’ll be able to weave through traffic much faster than we can get there by car.” He heads to the console near the elevator and rummages through the drawer before tossing something at him. “Use the ear piece with your phone and we can patch you in to JARVIS for updates.”

 

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve says, pocketing the tiny device and darting into the elevator.

 

 

Steve acclimates to the bike easily, regretting the loss of his own, left behind in his escape from SHIELD after the elevator attack, and finds it comforting to have JARVIS’s calm voice in his ear as he zips through the moderate early morning traffic. Pale light has leached into the sky, but he can already tell by the haze over the city that they have some stormy weather on the way.

 

“Captain, it would appear that Sergeant Barnes is nearing City Hall,” JARVIS informs him.

 

Steve grimaces. “Any sign that he’s after a target?” he asks, hating that he feels the need.

 

“His current bearing is far more casual that it appears in the footage of him from Washington, D.C. Although I would not care to make a definite statement, his attitude suggests a much more relaxed approach at this time.”

 

Releasing the breath he’d been holding, Steve accelerates, weaving through a bit of congestion and cutting across to Broadway before continuing south. He makes good time, but he’s still a couple of blocks out when JARVIS informs him Bucky’s headed for the Brooklyn Bridge pedestrian access.

 

“You’re sure?” he presses, feeling a catch in his chest. He can’t help but hope Bucky’s headed home.

 

“Positive, Captain,” JARVIS replies. “There are an abundance of surveillance cameras in the area due to the proximity to the mayor’s office, and Sergeant Barnes has now accessed the walkway that leads over the bridge.”

 

Steve floors it through a yellow light at the next intersection and proceeds to dart between the taxis and town cars that make up the majority of the traffic, barely clearing the gap left by a limo turning at the next corner and the Fed Ex next to it. Conscious of the constant police presence up ahead, he slows just before coming into view and parks at the first opening between cars along the side of the street. Then he takes off at a run, dashing toward the walkway JARVIS had mentioned.

 

“You still have eyes on him?” he asks, hand pressed to his ear.

 

“I can confirm he has accessed the bridge and that he has not exited on the Brooklyn side,” JARVIS states. “Visual coverage on the bridge itself is inconsistent.”

 

Reaching the path, Steve slows to a fast walk, conscious of the flow of civilians. The last thing he wants it to cause a scene that might startle Bucky – or start an altercation. Despite the way their last two encounters ended, he knows he cannot guarantee that he won’t find himself facing down the Winter Soldier. He scans the area in front of him, trying to spot the familiar figure in the crowd. But it’s a cool, damp morning, and a fair number of people are bundled against the weather, always a little less mild on the bridge itself. Walking steadily toward Brooklyn, he sees a number of hats, several rain jackets, hoods of all sorts, the occasional scarf.

 

He’s maybe a quarter of the way across the river when he spots someone unmoving in the distance, a figure hunched in on itself, leaning against the railing and staring out at the water, hood pulled up, the edge of what looks like a visor peeking out under the edge. His gaze takes in the tension, the lumpy bag on the ground, the rough clothes, and his heart speeds up.

 

“JARVIS, I think I’ve spotted him,” he murmurs, continuing forward, slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal.

 

“Very good, Captain. And might I add, please proceed with caution.”

 

“I will,” Steve agrees, inexplicably touched at his concern.

 

“Also,” the AI continues, “Sir would like me to tell you that he is approximately five minutes out and will be parked near City Hall if you require back up.”

 

Steve half-sighs. He should have known Tony would follow, even if at a slower pace. He ignores the information for now, unsure what Stark could even do against the Winter Soldier without his suit.

 

He knows the instant Bucky becomes aware of his presence. He’s maybe fifteen feet away when suddenly there’s no one on the walkway between them and Bucky stands a little straighter, arms still resting on the railing but clearly no longer bearing any weight. He’s poised to spring into action, senses on alert, and Steve feels his feet falter. He manages another few steps, each one slower than the last, before coming to a stop as Bucky turns and looks him directly in the eye.

 

~*~

 

TBC 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finally speaks with Bucky… or at least the man who looks like him. But how much of his friend remains?

He straightens, knowing who it will be before he turns, though there’s no logical reason why he should – no familiar shadow thrown across his field of vision, no sound made to give him away as he approaches. But he still knows that he will turn and see Steve. Not Captain America, in his red, white, and blue, but Steve Rogers, in some sort of casual civilian wear, looking like he should only… not.

 

The quiet footsteps hesitate just as he recognizes that they’re headed his way, the pace slower when they continue, uneven, faltering, until he allows himself to look and they stop completely.

 

He stares at Steve for a long moment, holding his gaze, trying to determine what’s behind it. Not fear – at least not fear of him. Apprehension, maybe. Worry? He can’t tell. He’s unaccustomed to judging emotions, has spent years discounting pleas and tears and people pissing themselves in terror.

 

Steve looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead he stands there with his arms down at his sides, hands open, no sign of a weapon. He’s revealing himself, leaving himself vulnerable, proving he’s still not a threat. Steve claimed he wouldn’t fight, and the promise holds.

 

He nods and turns back to face the water. There is a strange inevitability to the moment, and he waits to see how it will play out, how Steve will react to his holding his ground – neither making a move to attack nor retreating in response to his presence. Below, some kind of barge appears from under the edge of the bridge, and he watches its progress as it inches forward along the river, steady and calm.

 

Steve doesn’t make him wait long. He slowly steps up next to him and leans against the rail, careful to leave a good foot between them. It feels wrong, that distance. Something in him aches to close the gap, to press skin to sun-warmed skin, his own muscled arm against a scrawny one, shoulders unevenly matched. It’s impossible, an illusion, a weird figment floating through his tangled mind. Beneath that plaid shirt and leather jacket, Steve’s arm is broad and sturdy; his own metal remains camouflaged under cotton and denim. No warm skin, no sun shining down, no carefree…

 

“Hi,” Steve says quietly, and for all that he’s keeping his voice low, the word breaks through his thoughts like a battering ram.

 

Inside his gloves, his hands clench then release. “How,” he begins, his voice raspy. He stops, clears his throat, tries again. “How did you find me here?”

 

“A friend of mine tapped into the security cameras around the area. Saw you go into the subway last night, so we kept track of the exits until you came back out this morning.”

 

Of course. Technology. He has learned about it each time he’s emerged from the cold, the latest advances drilled into his brain in as much as he needed to know about them. Satellites, rocket ships, computers, ATMs, internet. He knows about the global surveillance but thought only governments and spy agencies could access such things. But then, perhaps Steve still qualifies somewhere in those categories.

 

“And last night?” he asks, because the last thing he had expected while watching the Hydra base burn was to look down into the street and discover Steve standing there.

 

He sees broad shoulders shrug from the corner of his eye. “More luck than anything. We were scanning the calls for emergency services when the fire was reported, and we knew the address was a Hydra base.”

 

“You looked up at the rooftops,” he says, turning to face Steve, wanting to see his expression. “You were searching for me?”

 

“I… Do you remember shooting Director Fury when he was in my apartment in D.C.?” Steve asks. “It was about a week and a half ago.”

 

He frowns. “You ran after me?”

 

Steve nods. “You were watching from the roof across the street. I remembered. And I thought, well… maybe you had a reason to burn the Hydra base down,” he finishes, sounding like he’s choosing his words with care.

 

He looks back out at the water, turning the statement over.

 

“Had you been there before?” Steve asks, hesitant.

 

He nods. “You knew.” It’s not a question.

 

“I suspected. We know about some of your previous missions, that one of them took place in New York. We thought maybe you’d reported to that base before.”

 

“They had a chair. I don’t want to go back in the chair,” he says, voice low, not caring if he’s heard.

 

“You don’t have to. We can help you, keep you safe. We won’t let Hydra get hold of you again.”

 

“Why?” he demands, stepping back from the rail this time, shifting to face Steve. “Why do you keep looking for me?”

 

Steve straightens, matching his stance, his expression earnest and painful in its honestly. “I want to help you, to make sure no one ever hurts you that way again.”

 

“But why? Why do you care?”

 

“You’re my friend. My _best_ friend, Bucky. I—”

 

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

 

Steve’s face crumples in on itself for just an instant before he pulls himself together again. “I know you don’t remember,” he says. “I understand that.”

 

He shakes his head. “I saw him. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” he says. “I read about him. At the museum.”

 

“You… you went to the exhibit at the Smithsonian?”

 

“Bucky Barnes was Steve Rogers’s childhood friend. He was a sniper and a soldier, and the only one of the Howling Commandos not to come back after the war. He was a hero. I’m not a hero,” he says, voice rising.

 

Steve lets out a slow, careful breath. “A friend of mine – a scientist – says that whatever Zola did to you in 1943, whatever he gave you that’s allowed you to survive everything that happened, it’s probably healing your mind, just the way it lets your body heal faster.”

 

He blinks at the shift in subject, feels the tension that was building slowly dissipate.

 

“Have you been… remembering things? At all?”

 

Taking a step forward, he leans again the railing, sideways this time, elbow propping him securely, left hand free to fend off any attacks. He keeps his gaze down and to the side, unwilling to look at Steve, who sounds so hopeful. Steve, who doesn’t understand that remembering isn’t what matters. But he nods ever so slightly in response to the question.

 

“What have you remembered?”

 

He shakes his head. “Moments. Fragments. Flashes. Pieces that don’t go together.”

 

“Like what?”

 

He thinks back over all the tiny segments, corners of different puzzles. “Standing here,” he says. “In the sun.”

 

“We used to come a lot as kids,” Steve confirms. “Watch the boats.”

 

“A car with fins. Turquoise with white leather seats splashed with blood and shattered glass.” He licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “Falling a long distance. Blood on the snow. Pain.” He closes his eyes. “Blood. Pain and cold, over and over again.”

 

“Stop,” Steve says, and there’s suddenly pressure against his left hand.

 

He snaps his eyes open to find Steve holding his hand between both of his own – his metal hand wrapped in its glove – squeezing gently. He jerks his gaze to Steve’s face, and there are tears swimming in that endless blue. 

 

“It hurts,” he murmurs, the words just falling from his lips. “To remember.”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Bucky,” Steve says.

 

He tugs his hand away. “Bucky Barnes fell from a train in the Alps during the war and was killed,” he says. “There is no Bucky Barnes. I’m not him. I can’t _be_ him.”

 

Steve takes a shuddering breath, but he nods. “I spent seventy years on ice. I’m not the man I was back then, either, and I haven’t been through a fraction of what happened to you. I understand you can’t go back to being the Bucky Barnes I knew,” he says. “But you’re not who they made you, either. You’re not their tool, their weapon. You may no longer be Bucky, you’re not the Winter Soldier, either.”

 

“Who else is there?” he asks, and for the first time in his memory, he feels helpless.

 

“That’s up to you to figure out.” He takes another deep breath, this one more steady, resolved. “After you fell, once the mission was over and we were back in London, I tried to get drunk,” he says. “I just wanted to forget, to get rid of that image of you…” He swallows. “Anyway, I couldn’t. Because of the serum. I metabolize everything too fast and the liquor’s gone before it can take effect.” He shrugs.

 

“A friend found me in the bar – it was a wreck, all bombed out – and told me I shouldn’t blame myself for what happened to you, that it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t believe that,” he says, glancing down at his hands where he’s threaded his fingers together as if to keep himself from reaching out again. “She said that if I respected you, I needed to respect the choice you’d made to follow me onto the train, that you must have thought I was worth the risk.” He looks up again. “I think it was probably the last choice you made for yourself until you pulled me out of the Potomac River last week.”

 

He stands very still as the words click. “You know.”

 

Steve nods. “Natasha saw you dragging me onto the shore from the helicopter before they circled back to get me.” Another deep breath. “You’ve had all your choices taken away from you for so long. I refuse to be another person in your life telling you who you are or what to do. Only you can decide.”

 

He thinks of all the things he has done, the people he has killed, the anger he can sometimes feel simmering deep within his gut, the tendrils of fear beneath it. “But… you trust me?”

 

“I do. You saved my life. You were supposed to kill me, those were your orders, but instead you saved me.”

 

He frowns. Something is tripping inside his mind. “Why…?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“Why were you drinking in a bombed out bar?”

 

Steve lets out a sudden, unexpected bark of laughter. “That’s what you’re fixing on?”

 

He shrugs. “It seems… impractical.”

 

Steve’s expression grows serious again. “It was the same bar where we put the squad together, after I’d gotten you and the rest of the 107th out of that work camp. Where you said you’d follow me,” he finishes softly.

 

His frown deepens. “You. Not Captain America.”

 

Steve’s breath catches. “Right. That’s what you told me. You said—”

 

“No. Don’t tell me.”

 

“Oh. I…Sorry,” Steve says, disappointment flooding his features.

 

He shakes his head. “If I remember things… I need to remember it _happening_. If you tell me, I remember the _story_. It’s not… real.”

 

Steve’s expression clears. “Of course. That makes sense.”

 

His heart thuds faster in his chest. There are other things he wants to ask about, other fragments he could confirm, but he hesitates. He’s not certain how he would feel if some of the pieces turn out to be false. He thinks about the woman, about how he felt when she spoke with Steve, and thinks maybe if he finds out she was real, then the feelings would be, too.

 

“A dame in a red dress?” he asks carefully.

 

“Peggy. Agent Carter,” Steve says, smiling, though there’s something off about it. He can’t quite pinpoint what it is. “She came to tell me about a meeting the next morning.”

 

“She wanted to dance with you,” he corrects, automatically knowing it’s true.

 

Steve lets out a sad chuckle. “Of course that’s what you remember,” he says.

 

He remembers feeling jealous. At least he thinks that what the feeling is. And also… worried? He does know he didn’t like the way Steve looked at the woman, and that he was glad when she had gone and Steve sat down with him again at the bar.

 

“I can’t get drunk either,” he says, grasping at the first thing that comes to mind, not quite sure how he knows this fact, but needing to change the subject.

 

“I’m not surprised. It seems like you got a variation of Erskine’s formula.”

 

“Vodka,” he says. It’s come out of nowhere, the image of an empty bottle with Russian writing overturned on a wooden nightstand. A slender woman sprawls next to him, head buried beneath a pillow, sheet drawn up over naked curves, skin winter white in the pale light of dawn. He shakes off the memory.

 

“You okay?” Steve asks.

 

He nods.

 

“I… I still want to help. Will you let me? If I promise not to tell you about the past, will you let us help you?”

 

“How?” he asks, suspicion making his back tense.

 

“Just a place to stay until you figure out what you want to do,” he says quickly. “You’d be able to come and go, but it would be somewhere safe, where Hydra couldn’t get to you. And if you wanted other sorts of help, we’d get it for you. Medical,” he suggests slowly. “Or just somewhat to talk to.”

 

“And you’d be there?”

 

Steve looks nervous. “Yes. Unless you’d rather I not be.”

 

It’s tempting. He is unaccustomed to looking after himself and the idea of help after even a week on his own sounds… welcome. And he thinks… he believes he can trust Steve. Steve is not Hydra. Steve does not want to hurt him. Steve will not make him sit in the chair or the cold.

 

But Steve has friends. The man with the wings and the redheaded woman and the friend who can access security cameras. Steve says “we” more than “I,” and he understands that Steve trusts other people. He does not think he can trust other people. Not…yet.

 

He shakes his head, unsurprised when Steve looks hurt. “I… I need to do this myself,” he settles on.

 

“All right,” Steve agrees. “I said I’d respect your choices. But will you let me give you something?”

 

“What?”

 

Steve reaches slowly into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, flips it open and draws out a credit card. He holds it out. “Please. At least for emergencies. I’d feel better if you had it.”

 

He looks at the plastic in Steve’s hand, reaches out slowly and accepts it. The name printed on it is simply Steve Rogers, generic enough to draw no strange glances. He nods, and tucks it away. “Thank you.”

 

“What about cash? Do you need—”

 

“I’m okay,” he says, not wanting to empty Steve’s pockets. 

 

Steve sighs. “If you’re sure. But listen. If you need anything, if anything happens and you change your mind, come find me. Do you know Stark Tower in Midtown?” he asks, jerking a thumb back toward Manhattan.

 

The name is familiar. He frowns. “Howard?”

 

The edges of Steve’s mouth curve up, but he just shakes his head. “No, his son, Tony Stark.”

 

“Iron Man,” he responds automatically. “Yes.”

 

“It’s Tony’s building. Anything happens and you want to find me, you go to Stark Tower, tell them you’re looking for me. They’ll call me, or get Tony to do it.”

 

“Stark Tower in Midtown,” he repeats.

 

“Promise?” Steve asks, sounding hopeful again.

 

It feels like a lie to promise to contact him. He does not know if he ever will, despite this pull he feels. “If something happens and I need help,” he agrees after a long pause, satisfied when Steve looks relieved.

 

“Do you know where you’ll go?”

 

He shrugs, but he glances over toward Brooklyn. Maybe it’s not home, but he’s found himself growing curious as they’ve stood on the bridge.

 

Steve smiles. “Okay. Just… be careful, and watch out for Hydra. I don’t think they’re done with any of us,” he adds.

 

“Cut off one head,” he murmurs.

 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Steve sighs. “I should… probably get going.” He sounds pained, like he’s forcing himself to make a break.

 

He nods. “All right.”

 

Steve looks him in the eye, but he appears a little anxious. “Would it be okay if I… Can I give you a hug? Would you mind?”

 

He does not know the last time he was touched in a friendly manner. Can’t remember ever being hugged. But that memory of warm bare arms pressed side-by-side comes roaring back, and he nods and takes a small step forward.

 

Strong arms come slowly around his shoulders, pulling him gradually against a broad, firm chest. He lets his own arms drift upward, circling Steve’s ribs and just resting there. Steve tightens his own grip, pressing his face into the space between his neck and his shoulder.

 

“Whoever you decide to be, when you figure it all out, I hope that person wants to come back and see me,” he murmurs, words muffled against the fabric of his collar. “Because I will always miss you, whoever you are, whatever you do. You will always be my friend.”

 

Steve ends with a quick squeeze, and he thinks he feels the brush of lips against his forehead, just beneath the brim of his cap, as Steve lets go and draws back. He knows he can see tears in Steve’s eyes again as he turns with a quick wave and starts walking away, stride determined, head down.

 

He watches him go, until he vanishes into the light crowd. Then he turns and heads slowly toward Brooklyn.

 

~*~

 

Tony’s waiting for him at the entrance to the bridge, looking, well, worried, and surprisingly patient.

 

Steve wipes quickly at his wet cheeks as he approaches, prepared for the dig or the quip Stark always has at the ready. What he’s not prepared for is the deepening of the other man’s frown as he steps forward to meet him.

 

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

 

Steve shrugs. “Not really.”

 

“Want to talk about it?”

 

“JARVIS didn’t give you a play-by-play?”

 

Stark glances away then back, looking uncomfortable. “I’m not that big of an ass, all right? He monitored you just to make sure you didn’t need help, but he didn’t report back what you two were talking about. I’m guessing it didn’t go the way you’d hoped?”

 

Steve sighs. “He talked to me, and it looks like he’s remembering some bits and pieces, but it’s like you said, a lot of it’s negative.”

 

“But you trust him on his own?”

 

“I think… I think he’s working to figure out who he is. And that person’s not a Hydra assassin. So if you mean do I trust him not to go off and randomly kill innocent people? Yeah, I trust him.”

 

Tony nods. “Come on, let’s head back. I’m just up the block.”

 

“But your motorcycle...”

 

“I’ll send someone to pick it up. Let me just drive you.”

 

Steve nods and falls into step. He feels drained, utterly exhausted, but at the same time so damn angry he wants to punch something. When they get back to the tower, he’ll have to check out Stark’s fitness center. He knows he installed one with the Avengers in mind; might as well take advantage. Maybe he’s come up with a heavy bag Steve won’t burst ten minutes into his workout.

 

“So,” Stark says, as they’re driving uptown, “Pepper’s due back from D.C. in about an hour. You know, if you want to hear the updates. I’m sure she’ll share whatever Hill’s been up to.”

 

“I thought Hill was working for Stark Industries.”

 

“Oh, she is. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t some, shall we say overlap? Between that and her old duties?” He tilts his head. “Congress called her in, too, you know. Not just Agent Romanoff.”

 

“Right. Yeah. It’ll be good to see Miss Potts.”

 

Stark nods. When he’s forced to stop at an intersection, he turns to look at Steve. “What’s next?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you came up here determined to find Barnes. Did that, and looks to me like you’re done on that front for now. So what are your plans?”

 

Steve stares out the window and considers Stark’s question. What now? “Green,” he says, pointing toward the light.

 

“Right.” They zip forward.

 

“When Bucky fell from the train, I felt lost,” Steve says. “But then, I wanted vengeance.”

 

“Not very Captain America-like,” Stark comments. “But totally understandable.”

 

“Gotta say, I’m feeling a strong sense of déjà vu about now,” he admits.

 

“Also understandable.”

 

“Back then, I promised to raze Hydra to the ground, wipe them from the map.”

 

“And here we are, come full circle. How very convenient,” Stark says, a maniacal grin gracing his face. He glances briefly at Steve. “We declaring war, Cap?”

 

Steve feels something settle in his chest at Stark including himself. “Yeah, Tony,” he says. “We are most definitely declaring war.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that while this is the end of this particular story, it is not the end of the series. Steve and Bucky will meet again...


End file.
